


Fussy

by GrrraceUnderfire



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: A little Beaukirk, Anxiety, Childhood Trauma, Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Hypnotism, Sensory Processing Disorder, Stalag 13, Stuttering, Stuttering Peter Newkirk, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 43,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrraceUnderfire/pseuds/GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: He’s so thin. What’s wrong with him? Can LeBeau help Newkirk thrive?
Relationships: Louis LeBeau & Peter Newkirk
Comments: 58
Kudos: 108
Collections: Angst and Hurt/Comfort Prompts





	1. La fine bouche

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [angstandhcprompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/angstandhcprompts) collection. 



> Hi, a note from me, your friendly writer! I mentioned Newkirk's food aversion very briefly in my story "Caroling, Caroling" when he complained to LeBeau about a medicinal tea having too many ingredients and said he didn't like it when his food touched other food on the plate. So I thought I'd return to this with a story, even though I keep saying I AM NOT STARTING ANY NEW STORIES.
> 
> In this story, Peter is 5, so here are the ages of his other siblings: Mavis, 14; Michael, 13; Jamie 11; Emily, 9; Eileen (Ellie), 7; and Lilly, 3. "Nan" is his grandmother, who is helping to care for the children because their mother is in and out of hospitals with TB. I've written about these characters (who except Mavis of course are originals) in several other stories including "Done Talking" and "Behind the Rain."
> 
> "Caroling, Caroling" and "Behind the Rain" are not posted on AO3, they're over on Fanfiction.net.

_“Peter, stop moving your food around on the plate. Eat or leave the table.”_

_Five year old Peter Newkirk sat with his arms crossed. He didn’t care what his Nan said. The Brussels sprouts were touching the potatoes. The tripe looked disgusting. He’d rather starve._

_”He’s not leaving until he has eaten every bite,” his father growled. “I work hard to feed all of you.”_

_”Waste not, want not,” Mavis said helpfully, with a smile that was meant to coax Peter. She took up the fork, mashed up a bit of potato with the tines, scooped it up, and held it out to her little brother. He’d never eaten well, and he’d grown fussier each time Mummy left for another stay in hospital. Reluctantly, Peter took a bite. But when his father thumped his first on the table, Peter jumped and the fork poked the roof of his mouth._

_He would have cried if he was not so terrified. “I said eat,” his father roared. "That doesn't mean to feed him, Mavis."_

_“He’s not a baby, Mavis,” Nan said softly. “He doesn’t need your help. Go on, Peter, love, do as Daddy says and eat like a big boy.”_

XXX

”That smells good, LeBeau,” Hogan commented as the Frenchman whipped up supper. The core team had to eat. Their missions were physically demanding.

”Spam,” LeBeau snorted. “Ugh. I don’t know how I’m going to get Pierre to eat.”

”Easy,” Hogan replied, “he’ll eat what everyone else eats.”

LeBeau snorted again. “Or he’ll starve. I’ll make a separate plate for him so the foods are separate. He won’t eat if he doesn’t know what he’s getting.”

”Suit yourself,” Hogan shrugged, “but maybe if you didn’t cater to him he’d just eat.”

”Newkirk doesn’t ‘just eat.’ He’ll live on coffee and cigarettes, and then he’ll get sick. I don’t know how he was raised to be so picky, but French children, we did not get to choose our foods.” He paused for a moment, a dreamy look crossing his face. “Of course, our food was appetizing, unlike English food or anything found in Germany, especially in this filthy pit.”

XXX

_Peter speared a potato and slowly raised it to his lips. He put it in his mouth and instantly started to gag. It tasted of slimy, smelly Brussels sprouts. He coughed out the potato onto his plate._

_His father was out of his chair in an instant, hauling Peter out of his seat and whacking the back of his bare legs as he squirmed and fought. Roughly, he placed him down on a chair in the corner. “If you want to waste my wages, you won’t have any food at all,” he snarled, clouting the boy on the back of his head. He turned to face his family. “I’m going to the pub,” he announced._

_Peter sat and thought: Which is it? Do I have to eat every bite, or am I getting no food at all? He turned to look at Mavis, but she shook her head silently. Nan saw it and responded fiercely._

_”Now look what Peter has gone and done,” she lectured the children at the table. “He’s made your father very, very angry because he is wasting the food that man works so hard to put on the table. Mavis, you are not to feed him, and that goes for all of you. He’ll be having Brussels sprouts and tripe for breakfast.”_

_Now Peter was crying, and as he cried, he could feel a wet spot spreading across the front of his shorts. Now he was really in for it with Nan. At least Daddy was gone. He’d be too drunk to notice when he came home._

_He said nothing. There was nothing to say, and even if there was, he’d never get the words out. He sat in his chair, wet and hungry, until he fell asleep._

XXX

”Newkirk, will you please eat? You’re just pushing the food around with your fork.”

”Sssssssorry, Louis, I’m n-not that hungry.”

”You don’t have to separate the foods. I made sure they’re not touching,” LeBeau said with exasperation. “What is wrong with you English?”

“Actually, I think you’re generalizing, LeBeau,” Carter said helpfully. “I’ve seen the other English prisoners eat, and they just eat. No fuss.”

”I’m not ‘ffffussing,’ Carter. I said I’m j-j-j-just not hungry,” Newkirk snapped.

”Calm down,” Hogan said. “Newkirk, you do have to eat. And LeBeau’s made an excellent meal. Tastiest spam sauté I’ve ever had,” he grinned.

Newkirk pushed the plate away. “Sorry, mmmmate,” he said to LeBeau. “N-Nothing wrong with the ffffood—I j-j-j-j-j-j-just don’t have n-no appetite.” He got up and headed for his bunk. He lit a fag and took a deep breath.

He was stammering unusually hard, LeBeau noticed. That was never a good sign with Pierre. He looked over at Colonel Hogan, who nodded. Hogan’s concern was evident, but LeBeau knew that nod. It meant, “You’re going to have to deal with it, because I have no idea.”

XXX

_Peter woke up in the morning, dry and smelling of powder, and curled up beside Mavis in her bed._

_He was ravenous._

_Mavis spoke softly to him as she helped him dress for school. “Try to eat it, Peter. You know Nan will let you off the hook if you at least try.”_

_”I d-d-don’t like it w-when all the fuh, fuh, fuh, fuh foods are touching,” Peter said. “And I don’t like g-green fffood.”_

_Mavis sighed. What a stubborn little nipper. She took him by the hand and let him to the kitchen for his misery._

_As promised, there it was, his uneaten supper from last night. It looked even worse, the tripe’s honeycomb a sickening grey. It was so slippery, and he did not like slippery foods. As his sisters and brothers devoured toast and tea, Peter tried not to cry onto his plate._

_”...And I see you wet your shorts again,” Nan was lecturing as Peter’s ears turned pink. “You’re lucky your big sister doesn’t mind cleaning up after you, you dirty little boy,” she scolded. “Five years old and still wetting yourself, it’s disgraceful. I raised nine children and all of them were done acting like babies long before they were in school.” Michael and Jamie were snickering; Emily, Ellie, and Lilly were just staring, fear in their eyes._

_Nan stood over him as he gagged down a potato and a sliver of tripe, then sent him on his way to school with a hard smack across his legs. Mavis took Peter and Ellie by the hand as she did every morning to walk them to school as Emily walked beside them._

_Peter was ashamed. His legs were smarting, and he was very, very hungry. He hoped the school lunch would not be too wretched._

_But it was. Potatoes and onions and cabbages, all mixed up in a hot gooey mash. He didn’t eat. And after lunch he fell asleep, at his desk._

XXX

Newkirk felt his stomach growl as he stretched out on his bunk, but he ignored it as he did so often. He didn’t mind eating, not really, but he hated when people talked about food to him, or commented on what he was or wasn’t eating. If he could just have what he wanted—something simple—then he could eat in peace. It was like talking — if people didn’t pay so much attention to how he talked, it would be much easier to just say his words.

Fish and chips. Tea and toast. A puffy Yorkshire pudding. A good thick porridge. A slab of bacon. Some boiled carrots, not mushy. A slice of apple, if it was red or golden. Nothing slimy. Nothing mixed all together in a big glop. Nothing green. What was so hard about that? He wasn’t fussy. He just knew what he liked. 

XXX

_When he woke, the classroom was quiet, but he could hear the sounds of children playing in the school yard. He straightened up. Miss Walker, his teacher, was beside him, her smooth face full of concern._

_“Peter, do you feel all right?” she asked softly. She had taught in the East End for five years. She had wanted to be here, to make a difference in the lives of poor children. Peter, with his bright eyes, fierce stammer and shabby clothes, had touched her heart. “Are you ill?” she asked._

_Peter only shook his head. Answering was hard._

_”All right. Do you want to go outside and play, then?”_

_He shook his head again. No. Definitely not._

_She looked him over. His skin was drawn. He had dark circles under his eyes. Clearly, he wasn’t sleeping enough the poor tyke. And he looked so frail. There was one problem that was common to many of the children she taught, and she named it._

_”Do you need to eat, Peter?”_

_He nodded his head vigorously._

_“Well, them, how about a nice cup of tea?” she asked with a smile. “Stay here.”_

_Peter put his head down on the desk. When Walker returned from the teachers lounge, she was carrying a piping hot cup of tea and two currant biscuits. She place them in front of the boy and watched his eyes grow wide._

XXX

Newkirk dozed on his bunk as the cleanup clattered. He was drifting. As the room quieted down, he felt a hand on his arm. He opened his eyes and saw LeBeau.

”Get up. I’ve got something for you.” His voice was soft and encouraging, as if he was sharing a wonderful secret.

The barracks room was quiet. The other men were outside, taking in the last of a summer day’s sunshine.

At the table, there was a steaming mug of tea. A plate with a slice of toast.

And retrieved from somewhere deep in LeBeau’s pantry, two currant biscuits.


	2. Tête-à-tête

LeBeau watched with a mixture of satisfaction and bewilderment as Newkirk sat down and tucked into the tea and toast. Newkirk was normally tense as a coiled spring while he was at the table, but now, with the barracks room all but empty, he was visibly relaxed. He smiled companionably and thanked LeBeau for the food.

“Cor, Louis, d-did you brew this tea? Because it’s qu-quite good,” he said, smiling as put down his mug to nosh on the toast.

“I don’t care for tea…”

“I know, mate…”

“… but I do pay attention to how _you_ make it. After all, it is the one thing you know how to prepare.”

“Oh, really? How do I do it then?” Newkirk inquired with twinkle in his eye.

“You start with boiling hot water, and you pour it on the tea leaves…” LeBeau began.

“By taking the pot to the kettle. Never the kettle to the pot,” Newkirk interjected. “Which you did. I can tell.”

LeBeau smiled broadly. “Yes, I did. Then you let it steep for four minutes, put a little milk in the bottom of your cup…”

“Milk before tea. Never after…” Newkirk emphasized.

“No, never. And then you pour the tea in your mug,” LeBeau concluded.

“And add sugar. Tastes like three lumps, which is…”

“Just how I like it,” they said in unison, then broke up in laughter.

“Yes, well, where did you get the sugar?” Newkirk asked.

“For you? I have my ways,” LeBeau said airily.

The men fell silent as Newkirk dipped a biscuit into the tea and then savored the soft texture as he nibbled at it. Finally, he spoke up.

“Thank you, Louis. I was hungry.”

“Yes, I have eyes. You’re not eating much.”

Newkirk’s eyes were down, and he let out a little huff. He knew he was eating poorly again, and he know LeBeau would notice – he always did. If LeBeau was hoping for some elaboration as to what was eating Newkirk this time, he wasn’t going to get it.

“Pierre?” LeBeau finally asked.

Newkirk looked up.

“What if we just ate together for a while? Just the two of us?”

“You mean, no one else here in the barracks? Just us?” Newkirk sounded hopeful.

“Yes.” LeBeau could feel his optimism rising. Maybe he could get Newkirk to eat better if there were fewer distractions.

“No one commenting on how I’m eating?” Newkirk inquired.

“I might say something, but I won’t criticize you,” LeBeau said. “I just want to make sure you’re healthy.”

“Well, you were sn-snapping at mmme that you’d already sssseparated my ffffood…”

“Yes, I’m sorry for that,” LeBeau said. Newkirk’s stutter was ramping up again; he’d touched a nerve and needed to back off before discussion shut down completely. “I know you don’t like to let the foods touch,” he said softly. “Were you just nervous with everyone watching?”

Newkirk shrugged the shrug that LeBeau recognized as agreement.

“But Carter said I was ‘ffffussing,’” Newkirk said irritably.

LeBeau just looked at him, fighting back a smirk. He reached across the table and squeezed Newkirk’s arm. “Pierre,” he said. “Really?”

Newkirk looked up and saw LeBeau’s expression. He gave in with a weak smile.

“All right, I was fffussing. I j-j-j-just don’t need everyone’s comments on my eating habits.”

“It will just be us, mon pote. I’ll work it out with Colonel Hogan.”

Newkirk nodded. “That would be better. What, what will you cook?”

At that, LeBeau sighed. Supplies were not plentiful, even for Hogan’s team. They received special drops of a few ingredients—dried eggs, flour, suet—that helped him to stretch their meager resources, and at times he could bargain with the guards for extras. He’d have to figure it out.

“What would you like?” LeBeau replied. “Just don’t say fish and chips. We’re too far from the sea.”

“Could you do j-j-j-j-just the chips?” Newkirk asked.

“I think I could manage that,” LeBeau said with a smile.


	3. Compter les Calories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot that I had two more chapters of this story already written so I decided to go ahead and post this one. Chapter 4 needs a little work. I’d really love to hear from readers. Your ideas and feedback make my writing better. ~~Grace

“What exactly are you expecting to accomplish, LeBeau?” Hogan’s voice was heavy with skepticism and frustration. He needed his men strong and healthy enough to go on missions, and Newkirk’s periodic hunger strikes had the Colonel worried and baffled.

“I need some time to figure out what he will eat that I can prepare for him without too much trouble.” LeBeau said simply as he huddled with Hogan in his quarters. With some hesitation, he added, “People eat well when they are relaxed and happy and have appealing choices. I can’t do much to expand his choices, but maybe I can do something. He’s on edge lately, and he can’t eat when he feels he’s being watched and evaluated.”

“We’re not ‘watching and evaluating’ him, LeBeau,” Hogan scoffed. “In fact, I think we’re spending too much time catering to his whims. Eating isn’t complicated. When it’s lunch time, you eat. When it’s dinner time, you eat. He’s not in a damned nursery with his nanny. He’s in the RAF.”

“Well, everyone seems to have something to say about how he eats,” LeBeau countered sharply. “You do. I do. Carter does. We may not think we’re badgering him, but that’s what it feels like to him. We’re all making it harder for him to eat.” He stopped to take in a breath. “Sorry, mon Colonel, but this is Pierre. We know he’s sometimes difficult to understand. But I’ve seen him at death’s door before and I’m not going to let him go there again. Give me a week to get him eating again and …”

Hogan sighed. “All right. Yes, you’re right. You’re right. I’ll tell Carter that he and I need to back off.” He paused again. “Could he be sick? Coming down with something?”

“Homesick and heartsick, yes. But I’ve seen him with desperately ill. That’s not what this is,” LeBeau replied. “He’s just not eating.”

“Alright. But see if you can slip him in to see Wilson tomorrow, just to be on the safe side. And you do the talking if you have to.”

“Oui, mon Colonel, I will do that,” LeBeau agreed.

“Good man. And yes, LeBeau, if you need privacy, the two of you can eat in my quarters.”

LeBeau smiled and thanked him. “I think that will help a great deal, mon Colonel,” he said.

XXX

“Everything seems to check out OK, Newkirk,” Wilson said cheerfully as he completed his exam the next morning. “The only problem I’m noticing with your stomach is that it’s growling. You probably just need better food than we get around here. No offense, LeBeau.”

“Not at all, Wilson,” LeBeau said, waving away the comment. He understood perfectly well what Wilson meant. Their rations were completely inadequate, even with Colonel Hogan’s frequently successful efforts to get extra portions of bread for the men. 

“I’m j-j-j-j-just not hungry,” Newkirk added as Wilson picked up the clipboard that held Newkirk’s medical file, sat down opposite his patient, and started scribbling notes.

Wilson flipped through the file and frowned. “You’re down 9 pounds from three months ago, Newkirk. That’s a lot of weight, and you were only 132 pounds to begin with. That was already too thin.” He crossed his arms, holding the clipboard to his chest. “You understand how this works, right? You need calories to sustain your energy. Especially you guys,” he said with a nod to Newkirk and LeBeau. He was well aware that Hogan’s core team could easily cover 5 or 6 miles by foot on a normal night. Throw in running, climbing and evasion, and they were burning energy.

“Wwwwhat’s calories?” Newkirk asked skeptically. “I d-don’t think I’ve tried those. Are they gr-geen?”

Wilson and LeBeau both chuckled at that.

“No, no, Pierre,” LeBeau began.

“It’s a measurement of how much energy is needed to raise the temperature of water,” Wilson added. He got a bewildered stare in return. “It’s food science,” the medic continued. “You need a certain amount of energy from food to keep up your weight. With all your running around, you need… let’s see, around 2,600 calories a day to stay right where you are.” Wilson stopped and sighed. “Nobody in this camp gets that many calories consistently.”

“Except Schultz,” LeBeau said mournfully.

Now Newkirk was frowning. Wilson could see he really didn’t like the sound of this calorie business. “Listen, you don’t have to worry about the calories,” Wilson reassured him. “You just need to keep track of what you’re eating, and LeBeau and I will worry about the rest, OK?”

Newkirk shrugged. He hated even thinking about food.

LeBeau read his reaction instantly. “I’ll keep track for you. Don’t worry,” he said.

“Alright, then,” Wilson said. “What did you eat yesterday, Newkirk? What was your breakfast?”

“Brown bread with a bit of jam and coffee,” Newkirk replied. “I like brown bread,” he offered as Wilson jotted down notes.

“There are definitely some foods you like, mon pote,” LeBeau said in an encouraging tone.

“Alright. Lunch?"

"I wasn't hungry," Newkirk said. "I had some sugar in my coffee."

"Hmm. Supper?”

“Sssssome spam sauté,” Newkirk said, wrinkling his nose.

“Do you think that counts as eating, Pierre?” LeBeau gently prodded.

“I don’t even think it counts as fffffood,” Newkirk replied. He sighed and looked at LeBeau in resignation. “N-no, it doesn’t really count. I couldn’t get it down. I had a bit of the p-p-p-potato, though.”

“How much?” Wilson asked.

Newkirk shrugged. LeBeau supplied the answer: “Maybe a third of a potato, and a bit of boiled carrot.”

“OK, you’re up to about 350 calories,” Wilson said. He shook his head and looked at Newkirk with renewed concern. “Son, you must be starving,” he said.

Newkirk simply sat there, hanging his head and looking miserable. “I ate everything what Louis gave me after that,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “Toast, two biscuits, and a cup of tea.”

Wilson nodded. “Alright. That was a good snack. Was there any butter or jam on the toast?”

“Both,” Newkirk said with a smile. “Louis had some jam stashed away, and I nicked the butter from the Sergeant’s mess the day before yesterday.”

“That’s better. That gets you to about 850 calories. Only 1,750 to go.”

Newkirk and LeBeau both looked crestfallen. This was going to be difficult.

Wilson sat quietly, drumming a pencil on his clipboard. He thought for a bit. “LeBeau, are there any natural remedies that work to stimulate the appetite?”

“Fennel, caraway,” LeBeau said as Newkirk made a disgusted face. “Ginger tea, or maybe peppermint?

“Ginger’s alright,” Newkirk said. “I don’t like peppermint or any of that other rubbish.”

“OK. Do you like chocolate? Maybe London could drop a few chocolate bars. One a day would be 200 calories,” Wilson said.

Newkirk looked eager, but LeBeau shook his head. “He needs real food.”

“He needs calories, LeBeau. I just want him eating,” Wilson said. LeBeau shrugged in agreement, and Newkirk looked relieved. He could manage a chocolate bar as long as it didn’t have any nuts or raisins in it. Just plain milk chocolate.

Wilson was still thinking. Finally, he snapped his fingers. “There’s this powdered drink mix we get in the Red Cross invalid packages… no one here likes it much except the English guys. Maybe you’d try it? It’s a decent source of protein and calcium and some vitamins…”

Newkirk looked dubious as Wilson rattled off the drink’s nutritional merits and ducked into a pantry closet. But he brightened instantly when the medic emerged with a yellow tin with blue lettering and a picture of a cow on front.

“Blimey, that’s Horlick’s!” Newkirk said.

“Oh, you’re familiar with it?” Wilson seemed pleased. This stuff was right up there with laxative tablets in term of things he had more of than he could possibly use.

“We used to mix it with hot water or milk and drink it before bedtime,” Newkirk said. “Except, well…”

“Well, what?” Wilson and LeBeau asked simultaneously.

“Nothing, really. Yes, I think I’d have that,” Newkirk said with a grin.

“Good. Maybe it’ll settle your stomach down and help you eat,” Wilson said. “And two glasses a day of this will really help you. That’ll be 600 calories right there. We just need to come up with 950 more. I'll give it more thought. Go have some breakfast. I'll talk to Colonel about getting additional food from London."

Newkirk looked glum. This sounded like a lot of food. Toast, biscuits, potatoes, chocolate, Horlick’s… he wasn’t sure how much more he could stomach.

_“Drink it up, there’s a good lad,” Mavis was saying. It was a snowy night in December, and their flat was cold, even with a hot water bottle under the blankets and two of them huddling together._

_Peter had just turned 6, and officially he now slept in the room next door, in a big bed with his brothers. But more often than not, he was in here with his sisters, tucked up against Mavis in one twin bed while Emmy, Ellie and Lilly shared the other. Lilly, however, being not yet 4, was just as likely to crawl in with Peter and Mavis or toddle off to Nan’s bed in the kitchen._

_“Doesn’t that Horlick’s feel good in your tummy?” Mavis said as she tucked her sisters in and then climbed back in beside her sleepy brother. Four little voices murmured “yes” as she settled herself beside Peter, curling around him to hold him close. “Alright then, sweet dreams, my babies,” she told all four, echoing her mother’s voice. She added in a whisper only Peter could hear, “I’ll wake you up to tinkle.” She kept her tone chipper as always, although she was exhausted from a full day of work and a full evening of looking after the little ones._


	4. Anxiogène

Throughout the day, LeBeau kept an eye on what Newkirk was eating and tried to tempt him with a few favorites. He served himself and Pierre last at every meal to ensure that Newkirk had as small an audience as possible.

Brown bread always went down better with jam and marmalade. Mid-morning tea, taken while everyone else was outside, was accompanied by shortbread biscuits Le Beau had wheedled from a Scotsman in exchange for cigarettes. He saw to it that Newkirk ate at least some lunch, serving him in the privacy of his sewing hut. It was only carrots and potatoes, but it was better than nothing. He traded Schultz an apple strudel for the promise of sausages and cheese. And he reminded Colonel Hogan to ask London for a few supplies, including a special stash of English chocolate bars.

That evening, while a stew bubbled on the stove, LeBeau was boiling oil and chopping potatoes.

“Jeepers, LeBeau, that oil is hot,” Carter commented as he heard the sizzle.

“It has to be,” LeBeau replied. He dropped slices of two potatoes into the pot and watched with satisfaction as they quickly turned a golden brown. He dished them out onto an old newspaper to cool down.

He served up the stew, made of mutton from New Zealand Red Cross packages and lentils from Indian ones and a few turnips and potatoes, to all the men on Hogan’s core team, leaving aside portions for himself and Newkirk.

He picked out just a few small pieces of meat for Newkirk, laid it on a plate, and held his breath as he watched to see if the juices would run. They didn’t, so LeBeau forged ahead, placing a generous pile of the fried potatoes on Newkirk’s plate. He smiled. It was fit for a prince. A very, very fussy prince. Then he filled up his own plate and nodded to Newkirk to join him.

“Where are you guys going?” Carter asked. LeBeau sighed. He should have found time to explain.

“We have something to discuss, Carter,” LeBeau said patiently. “Colonel Hogan gave us permission to eat in his office.”

“That’s right,” Colonel Hogan put in. “Take your time, fellas,” he said. “Let me know how it goes.”

Olsen was the next to pipe in. “Hey, how come he gets all the French fries?” he asked. “We never have those, and you’re giving almost all of them to Newkirk!” He got up to grab his share from plate LeBeau was holding.

“At ease, Olsen,” Hogan commanded. “It’s his birthday.”

“Oh,” Olsen grumbled. “Huh. Birthday French fries—is that a tradition around here? Because I never got any.”

Carter looked confused. “Colonel, Newkirk’s birthday was a couple of months ago.”

XXX

LeBeau watched with satisfaction as Newkirk devoured his potatoes. He really was very hungry. His reached across with his fork to spear another—and then another—from LeBeau’s plate. Though mildly annoyed to lose part of his meal, LeBeau didn’t protest. He was just glad to see his friend eating.

He was less pleased to watch how Newkirk was picking at the rest of the meal. The mutton had touched onions and celery in a stew pot, and Newkirk knew it. He pushed it around on its plate.

“Can you try it a little of the mutton?” LeBeau asked. “It comes all the way from New Zealand.”

“They’re known for lamb and mmmuh, mmmutton,” Newkirk said. He eyed what was on his plate, then picked it up with a fork and took a small bite. He swallowed it and smiled. He had another bite, then two more after that, then laid down his fork. LeBeau could see Newkirk had experimented as much as he was willing to.

“You’ve mentioned eating mutton before,” LeBeau.

“S-sometimes,” Newkirk grumbled. “N-n-not from a tin. And not stew, where it’s all mixed up. And no p-p-p-peas. Or mint sauce,” he added, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He pushed the plate away. “But this was good, Louis. Thanks, I’m done.”

LeBeau didn’t fight Newkirk’s decision to be finished, but he had questions. “I didn’t serve you peas,” LeBeau said cautiously.

“I know. I j-j-j-just meant, I don’t w-want any if you do have them,” Newkirk said. “They’re too mmmushy.”

 _Peas should not be mushy_ , LeBeau thought. But he’d been to London as a young man; he’d witnessed the atrocities that materialized on dinner plates. Mushy, lumpy peas were one of the more appalling aspects of British cuisine.

“What did you eat at home? Just a plain mutton chop?”

“God, no. They taste like wet mittens. Just small bits of meat, sliced like this,” Newkirk said, moving his hand in shaking motion.

“Shaved meat? All right, I can do that. Perhaps you could have just a little more next time,” LeBeau said.

Newkirk shrugged. “I’ll try it, j-j-just as long as it’s pl-plain. Not picked out of a stew.”

“Did you like anything you ate today?” LeBeau asked.

Newkirk stopped and thought. “The chips,” he said. “The brown bread and j-j-jam. The sh-sh-shortbread. It was all good, LeBeau. Ta.”

XXX

That evening, LeBeau mixed up a night time drink for Newkirk. He had a low regard for milk as a food, but he knew it had nutritional benefits. So he had accepted Wilson’s offer of a tin of condensed milk to mix with the Horlicks so Newkirk could have a glass before bedtime. He clearly liked this Horlick’s stuff. It smelled too sweet for LeBeau’s liking, but in the spirit of camaraderie he decided he’d have some too. He mixed it up, and then with a nod to Colonel Hogan, he waved Newkirk into the Colonel’s quarters for a nightcap.

“You like this, eh?” LeBeau said with a grin. “I thought we could both try it.”

“Um,” Newkirk replied. “Um, do you think it’s the same?”

“The same what?” LeBeau answered. He stopped himself and went back out into the main room, returning with the tin. “Look,” he said. “Right here, it’s says ‘Horlicks Ltd., Slough, Bucks.’ That sound English.”

“It’s called ‘Slough,’ not ‘Sluff,’” Newkirk replied.

“What?”

“You said ‘Sluff,’ like the d-d-d-d-dead skin that comes off snakes, like Andrew talks about. ‘Sluff.’ I know it’s spelt the same, but it’s a different wwww-word.”

“‘Sluff,’ is how I learned that word, in a very advanced English class,” LeBeau replied haughtily before laughing at himself. He prided himself of his command of English, but sometimes he tripped up. “Sluff Bucks.’ What does that mean, anyway?” he asked, marveling at the oddness of the English language.

“It’s a town in B-Buckinghamshire. Only it’s Slough. ‘Slaaaaaaw.’ Lllike the way they say ‘Slow’ in parts of in the north. Or maybe it’s Ireland,” Newkirk said helpfully. 

“Alright, Slaaaaaaw. Pierre, that drink is getting cold, so drink up. It’s the same you’re used to. You can see that, can’t you?”

“I suppose so. But now I’m th-th-th-thinking about snakeskin,” Newkirk said.

“ _Mon Dieu_ , Newkirk, just drink it!” LeBeau snapped.

“Fine,” Newkirk replied. “I’ll try it.” He had sip, then another and another. He sighed. “Yes, it’s exactly like I remember it,” he added. They sat together for a few minutes, taking small sips of the hot liquid. Newkirk sighed with pleasure while LeBeau tried not to make a face at the sweet, malty, milky flavors. 

_Les goûts et les couleurs ne se discutent pas, especially when it came to the English,_ he reminded himself.

“Here, you can have mine,” LeBeau offered.

“I’ve had enough,” Newkirk replied.

LeBeau inspected his cup. It was half-full. “You’ve barely had any.”

“It’s, it’s, it’s enough. Thank you, Louis,” Newkirk replied.

“But the milk—it goes to waste,” LeBeau said, in a tone of despair.

“I, I, I like it, but I’ve had enough. I, I, I thought you weren’t going to criticize mmmmme,” Newkirk said. He was tugging at the ends of his sleeves anxiously. “I didn’t mean to waste the mmmmmmilk, I just don’t want to…”

“To what?” LeBeau said, softening as he realized that he was in fact criticizing. Newkirk’s stammer had intensified, and that was usually a sure sign to LeBeau that he was being pushed too hard.

“Wwwwwwell, I don’t want to drink too mmmuh, mmmuh, mmmuch before bed, that’s all,” Newkirk replied. “Nnnnever a good idea to have liquids llll-lllaying on your stomach." He stood up and nodded at LeBeau. “Think Andrew mmmight like some?”

“It’s got milk in it – he might,” LeBeau said. He reminded himself that, whether he finished it or not, Newkirk had at least consumed some calories. He followed Newkirk out into the barracks room and occupied himself with thoughts of breakfast while they got ready for bed.

As he lay in bed, waiting for sleep to claim him, Newkirk’s mind wandered.

_“Oh my goodness, I forgot to get us up. Oh, Peter. Darling, we’re both soaked.”_

_The words slowly made their way into the sleeping child’s consciousness. Mavis was up and frantically busy._

_“Wha’ happened?” Peter asked in a drowsy voice._

_“Oh, love, you wee’d in the bed. Come on, sit up. You can’t stay in these wet things.”_

_In just moments, she had him stripped, dried, powdered and wrapped in a blanket. There were no extra night clothes in their home, no extra sheets, and the mattress was wet. She sat down beside him, trying not to cry, and berated herself for not getting Peter up as she had promised. She sighed and took a small rug off the floor and laid it on the mattress so they could go back to sleep._

_She probably didn’t mean to say it out loud, but she did, and he heard. “My poor boy, Granny’s going to be furious with you in the morning.”_

He decided it might be better not to sleep. He couldn’t risk it.


	5. Mal au Ventre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to Valashu for her help with this chapter!

Newkirk could pinpoint the moment when his latest food aversions had started. He remembered his cheeks flushing and feeling like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. It was during rollcall two Fridays ago.

It was just another night when LeBeau, as usual, had prepared a small feast for the core members of Hogan's team. They dominated the table in the center of the barracks and they ate better than anyone else in camp. And with good reason—they alone were working through the night, covering long stretches of terrain by foot on a regular basis. They needed extra nourishment to do their work.

Every day, LeBeau went out to collect their allotted rations from the kitchen and came back to put them to better use. With supplemental ingredients provided by London, "selected" by Newkirk, or acquired from the guards, they had a solid breakfast every morning and a decent dinner every night. It had to be this way, and the other men knew it. But that didn't make it easy to watch.

Colonel Hogan, of course, was attuned to the fact that unequal treatment could breed resentment. So he was constantly negotiating for extra bread, desserts, fruits and vegetables for the entire camp. And he made sure that Red Cross parcels were distributed fairly. While no one was getting fat at Stalag 13, nobody was starving, either.

Except possibly Peter Newkirk. He was thin as a rail when he arrived in 1941. He was younger than other men in the camp and was still having growth spurts, so he needed more fuel than the others, not less.

Other soldiers couldn't help but notice when Corporal Newkirk looked skeptically at everything he was served and then left scraps on his plate. And they were baffled when LeBeau shrugged it off and found extra food for his special friend. It was enough to make some men—usually newcomers to Barracks 2—wonder if there wasn't something extra-special going on between those two. There wasn't, but what appeared to be LeBeau's habit of coddling a grubby, thieving Cockney stuck in some people's craws.

On the Friday night in question, LeBeau’s Boeuf Bourguinon had smelled delicious—to everyone but Newkirk. All he could smell in it was onions. He knew LeBeau had knocked himself out to get a real piece of beef to keep everyone well fed and make sure they were getting plenty of iron. But he also knew before the food was in front of him that the onions would give him a belly ache, and probably worse, because they always had.

Then, during rollcall that evening, Newkirk overheard the conversation that left him feeling mortified and guilt-ridden.

"Did you see how much of that stew Newkirk left on his plate tonight?" Mills griped. "I would have killed for some of that! Man, we could have fed two guys on what Newkirk threw away. Then LeBeau went and made him toast!"

"With butter and white bread," Davis snorted. "Jeez."

"I don't get it," Bartoli put in. "Colonel Hogan works hard to feed everyone. Hasn't Newkirk ever heard of 'waste not, want not'?"

"If I was Hogan or LeBeau, I wouldn't let him leave the table without eating every bite. I just wouldn't," Mills said. "That's how I grew up. You don't waste food."

As Newkirk heard the conversation unfold, he was flooded with shame. He didn't mean to waste food, but sometimes it just tasted off to him, or didn't look right, or made him wish he could run to the latrine in the middle of the night instead of squatting over a chamber pot right there in barracks, where everyone seemed to have a wisecrack about his impact on air quality. He didn't care that much about food, he rationalized. So he shouldn't eat so much. If he ate less, it would leave more for everyone else. The hungry people should eat, not him.

Being talked about and stared at for his stutter was already awful. Being talked about because of his eating habits was intolerable. Just as it was often easier not to talk at all, it was often easier not to eat either.

Just like that, a curtain dropped. Suddenly everything on his plate just looked and smelled and tasted far less appetizing.


	6. Consommé par la Honte

A long-ago memory of waking up wet tormented Peter Newkirk, even though it hadn’t happened in years, not since his first nights away at an approved school in Surrey, when he was just 10. That had earned him a good deal of teasing from the older boys, but it soon became apparent that he was far from the only one who woke up to wet sheets. Peter had quickly settled in, the problem vanished, and the bullies moved on to someone else. He still got teased when he stammered, of course, but as long as he kept his mouth shut and his fists up, nobody bothered him much.

But as he settled into his bunk that night after having a cup of Horlick’s with LeBeau, he couldn’t stop ruminating about that warm drink. What made him drink it right before bedtime? It tasted good, and it was nice to sit and enjoy it with LeBeau. Wilson said he needed the “calories.” He’d had warm drinks a million times and he’d been fine. But now he was just worried. He could feel it in his stomach. He oughtn’t to drink at night, he decided. Not if he wanted to be able to sleep. He tossed for hours before finally getting in a light sleep.

The next day and the day after, he declined the Horlick’s, to LeBeau’s obvious frustration. And whenever he had anything to drink, he kept noticing the sensation of liquid sloshing around in his belly. It felt like an ocean in there, and that thought made him queasy. Maybe he didn’t need coffee either. Or water. Just a little tea, not too much. A cup or two a day, and not at night.

By the third morning and more restless sleeps, he woke up feeling rotten. As he climbed out of his bunk, his stomach was sour, and his head felt woozy. His feet hit the floor just as Schultz gave the five-minute warning for rollcall. Newkirk pushed his way toward the night bucket in the corner, relieved himself, then quickly pulled on his uniform, boots and coat. It was early September, but he was feeling the cold.

He was exhausted as he shuffled out to rollcall, taking his place between LeBeau and Hogan. He pulled his greatcoat tighter and felt a wave of nausea. He breathed deeply; the crisp morning air was refreshing. But he could feel his fingertips tingling as he took a chill.

Klink came out and started his nattering. All around him, Newkirk could hear the other men jeering and wisecracking as the Kommandant made inane observations. He felt like his head was wrapped in cotton as the sounds around him grew muffled. The nausea surged again, making him shake. He tried to focus his eyes as the Kommandant, the German guards, and the buildings behind them seemed to shudder and dip.

“LeBeau, open a window,” Newkirk mumbled as he reached for his friend’s arm.

“We’re outside, Pierre,” LeBeau replied. A look of deep concern crossed the Frenchman's face, and his hand grabbed for Newkirk’s coat, but it was too late. Newkirk’s knees buckled and he was falling to the ground. LeBeau managed to hold on long enough to keep Newkirk’s head from hitting the surface hard.

_“Peter Newkirk! You’re six years old and still wetting the bed like a baby! What did you drink before bed?” His grandmother was swatting him on the back of his legs as he got ready for school._

_“It was j-j-j-j-j, j-j-j-j-j…” he started._

_She smacked him hard. “Stop that! No stammering! You stand in that corner until it’s time to leave to school.”_

_“Nana, he hasn’t had any breakfast,” Mavis began._

_“And he’s not to have any! That will teach him! What did you give him last night? You know he can’t drink before bedtime! We can’t keep cleaning up his messes!”_

_“It was just some Horlick’s. I meant to wake him up to tinkle, but I stayed asleep. It’s my fault, Nana, not Peter’s,” Mavis said. She was crying._

_“You stop crying, you foolish girl,” Nana said softly. “Peter, look at what you’ve done,” she added, her tone hardening. “Your sister’s face is all blotched from crying over you, and she still has to get to the shop to work. I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, young man.”_

_Peter turned from his spot in the corner to look up at Mavis and could feel his chin trembling. He was trying hard not to cry. He never wanted to make Mavis cry or cause Nana to be angry with her._

_“Young man?” his brother Jamie said. “I thought you said he was a baby, Gran. Maybe you should get him some nappies.”_

_“I’m going to have to,” said Nan, throwing up her hands. “I’ll be scrubbing all day to get that mattress clean, and God himself know only knows if the stink will come out.” She looked at Peter and snapped, “You can’t keep wetting yourself, you dirty little boy.”_

_“You’d better keep sleeping with the girls, Miss Nancy, instead of coming into the bed with Jamie and me,” Michael taunted Peter. “We don’t need you wetting our bed.”_

_“That’s enough from you, Michael,” Nana was saying, but it was too late._

_Peter had spun around from his spot in the corner and rushed at his brother, head first, smashing straight into his stomach. Michael tumbled down, groaning. For good measure, Peter delivered a sharp kick to his kneecap, then ran for the door, dodging past Jamie on the way out. “I don’t want to sl-sleep in your st-st-stupid bed, you sod!” Peter yelled as he ran. He had no idea what a sod was, but he’d heard the word enough to know it was bad._

_“You get back here, you little monster,” his grandmother yelled after him as he ran outside, with no coat and no cap, on a winter day._

Newkirk could feel a cool hand slapping his warm cheek. "Oh, no, we've got to move him," a voice said, and then strong hands were rolling him onto his side as the meager contents of his stomach rose up. He lay with his cheek pressed into the ground, the bitter taste of bile on his lips as he shook with cold. 

" _Bringt diesen Mann sofort zur Krankenstation_ ," he heard an authoritative voice say. "All right, men, on three," said a familiar one.

Two sets of hands lifted him up and ran with him as he jostled between them, as loose as a ragdoll. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter's brothers' nickname for him and other parts of his history provided in this chapter are drawn from my story Behind the Rain. In that story (but not in this one, rest assured) his early-childhood bedwetting recurred during adolesence and beyond during stressful times.
> 
> An approved school is what Americans would call reform school, and it was for boys up to age 15.
> 
> The bit of German at the end says (I hope...) "Take this man to the infirmary at once!"


	7. Très Malade

Kinch and Harper had pulled off Newkirk’s coat and settled him onto an examining table in the infirmary. LeBeau pushed his way closer as Wilson, who couldn’t have seen Barracks 2 from the other side of the camp where he stood in formation, arrived at a gallop. Wilson went straight to the sink to scrub his hands, looking over his shoulder at Newkirk as he did so.

Thankfully, LeBeau saw, there was not much blood, and not the pulsing kind that made _his_ knees buckle. There was only a small smudge on Newkirk’s right cheekbone, where he had hit a rock, and it looked dry. LeBeau touched it gently with his thumb and smiled down at his friend, who looked back at him, sweaty, shaky, sick, and scared enough to reach for his hand.

Hogan, having led the way to the infirmary, now shooed everyone away from the examining table—everyone but LeBeau. The Colonel retreated with Kinch to hover outside the curtain that Wilson pulled around the examining table and sent Harper back to the barracks to get the backup team in place in the radio room and various watch posts. Carter had just arrived on Wilson’s heels. He was out of breath from running to fetch Wilson and then sprinting to the infirmary.

On the exam table, Newkirk, headstrong as ever, was trying to sit up. LeBeau pushed him down and was met with about as much resistance as a kitten could have mustered.

“ _Tiens-toi bien!_ ” LeBeau admonished him. “ _Tu dois te reposer!_ ” Then the reason for Newkirk’s obstinacy asserted itself as he turned his face to the side and threw up again. “ _Mon Dieu, mon pauvre petit, qu'est-ce qui ne va pas avec toi?_ ” LeBeau said tenderly, laying a hand on Newkirk’s neck and watching a greenish-yellow pool form at his feet.

“That’s bile,” Wilson pointed out helpfully as he nudged LeBeau to one side. He looked over his patient and plainly did not like what he saw. He look at his wristwatch and pinched Newkirk between the eyebrows. “Skin turgor, sluggish. Recoil three seconds at glabella,” he said, as an orderly, Corporal Mallory, came up behind him to take notes. Another soldier swooped in with a mop and quickly departed.

Without exchanging a word, Wilson and Mallory pulled off Newkirk’s uniform jacket, pullover and undershirt, and Wilson repeated the maneuver on his collarbone—“Clavicle, three seconds”—and belly—“Abdomen, four seconds.” He shook his head and clenched his lips, then took Newkirk’s hand, pressed on a fingernail, and frowned. Finally, he reached into his breast pocket and stuck a thermometer under Newkirk’s tongue. “Under,” he said softly. “Keep it under. Good boy.”

He studied his patient, holding his wrist as he checked his pulse. Newkirk’s eyes looked sunken, almost bruised. He was clearly unable to get comfortable as he wriggled restlessly. Wilson turned to LeBeau. “How long has he been throwing up?” he asked. In the next breath, he advised Mallory without even turning as he released Newkirk’s wrist, “thready pulse,” then turned back to LeBeau.

“Just twice, once in formation and now,” LeBeau said. “What’s wrong with him?” By now, Hogan had returned, and he stood quietly observing, one arm over LeBeau’s shoulder. LeBeau relaxed, very, very slightly, into the touch. He was scared for his friend and grateful to have someone to lean on.

“He’s very dehydrated,” Wilson said, while palpating Newkirk's belly. “And we need to get him on a scale. He looks like he’s lost more weight. Urine output?” he asked as he put his stethoscope to his ears and sat his patient up to listen to his heart and lungs.

When LeBeau didn’t answer, Wilson repeated, “Is he urinating?” He reached around to Newkirk and asked "Are you?" but got a disinterested shrug. He couldn't focus; Wilson helped him lie back down.

LeBeau scrunched his eyes and nose, then looked up at Colonel Hogan, who shrugged helplessly.

“I, I think so,” LeBeau said. “I thought he went before roll call. But he’s still not eating or drinking very well.”

“Well, we’re going to take care of that,” Wilson said as he withdrew the thermometer from under Newkirk’s tongue, then wiped away beads of sweat on his patient's forehead. “Temperature, 96.8. Mild tachycardia. Hyperhidrosis,” he said to Mallory.

Then Wilson turned to Newkirk with a tongue depressor in his hand. “Open,” he said, and Newkirk complied. As he examined Newkirk’s tongue, he also slipped his finger inside his mouth and probed his tongue and cheek. “Tongue furrows present,” he said to Mallory. “D-X, moderate dehydration.” He looked at LeBeau and Hogan. “He’s staying right here.”

Newkirk grumbled in protest, emitting a sound that was halfway between a complaint and a whimper.

“I’ll stay with him,” LeBeau said, instantly and correctly interpreting Newkirk’s objection.

“That would be a big help,” Wilson said. “Mallory, do we have Bed 7 open?” It was at the end of the row furthest away from any contagious patients. Newkirk was sick, but what he had certainly wasn’t catching.

Mallory scurried off, then returned, “Yes, Sergeant Wilson, Bed 7 is available.”

“Good. Get him settled in there, start him on some sugar water, and if he vomits again, 10 mg of hyoscine by the back passage, OK?” Mallory nodded. “And check in with Sergeant Vogel. It’s early enough in the day that we might be able to get a doctor out here to start IV fluids. He can make the call.” He reached out to Mallory. “Here, I’ll take the file for now. I’ll bring it over when I’m done.”

“I can work on Klink,” Hogan said. “I’ll make him _want_ to send the doctor.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but it’s actually not necessary, so save your fire for when we need it. We need an MD to start an IV, and Herr Doktor Magnusson has done it numerous times.” He was holding the file in his hand and tapping it against his hip. “I hope we can get him out here in an hour or two. Colonel, LeBeau, can we speak privately?”

**XXX**

They retreated to a small office in the back of the infirmary where Wilson had a tiny desk for writing up his reports. He was a meticulous record keeper. With his salt and pepper hair and shambling gait, Wilson was obviously older than most of the men in camp, including Colonel Hogan, who pegged him as around early 40s.

In fact, Joseph Morris Wilson Jr. was 41. The son of a bus driver and a cleaning lady, he had worked his way through Temple University in his hometown of Philly in six years by attending night school, earning a bachelor’s degree in biology. He married a year out of college, then went on to rack up a master’s degree in psychology while working in a medical lab. He was entering medical school at Temple when the Great Depression hit. His father delayed his own retirement to keep Joe Jr. in school, and everyone thought he could just about make it through. Then, at the end of his second year, his wife, Margaret, discovered she was expecting despite their best attempts at the rhythm method. And a month before his wife’s due date, his father unexpectedly died.

And that was that. Wilson kept his lab job, found extra work in a children’s behavioral clinic, and somehow managed to keep taking night classes at Temple—but this time, he followed his passion and studied the human mind.

Joey arrived in 1932, Alice in 1934, and his Ph.D. in psychology along with twins Billy and Annie in 1938. Meanwhile the rumblings of war were growing. In early 1941, the U.S. Army Air Force was looking for medics. He had all the qualifications; he talked it over with Peggy and together they decided that despite having a growing brood at home, he should heed the call to service. On December 7, 1941, he was glad he had.

He shipped out to England in July 1942; five months later, in December, he parachuted from a burning plane into Germany. And two months after that, as he settled into Stalag 13, Wilson’s youngest son, Martin, arrived on Valentine’s Day 1943.

Hogan knew a little of this, but he assumed, like everyone did, that Doc was just what you called a medic—not what Wilson actually was. At this moment, Wilson was glad that he had more clinical psychology training than medical training, because he needed it.

He waved LeBeau and Hogan into seats in the cramped office and opened Newkirk’s file. He flipped through a few pages, found what he was looking for, and put the file down on his desk, tapping his thumb on it.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “LeBeau, remember, I told you he’d lost a lot of weight?”

“I know,” LeBeau said. “His trousers are getting loose, but I thought…”  
  
“I noticed too,” Hogan said, “but I figured it was all our late night activities. We cover a lot of ground. He’s running it off, right?”

“Whatever he’s doing, it’s nine pounds in three months,” Wilson said. “And it looks to me like he’s lost even more. That’s nearly 7 percent of the weight he started at, and gentlemen, that is a big drop. Now, what do you think is _really_ going on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LeBeau tells Newkirk “Behave yourself! You have to lie down!” And then (because he's so adorably devoted to his Pierre), “My God, my poor little one, what is wrong with you?”


	8. Fais de Beaux Rêves

The blue sky and gray surroundings were swirling. His head was spinning. He was hot and cold and hot again, and he needed air. _Open the window._ Was that his own voice? No wait, he was outside. The building and the people were wobbling and dim and hazy. Muffled voices receded and slowed, then hummed and buzzed, and then he could smell the clay in the soil.

There was Mavis and Nana and his horrible brothers and the slap of a cold hand on his legs and he was running and crying and freezing.

And then … then… the voices were so very loud and he wasn’t running anymore. A cold hand was slapping his face instead and someone—who?--was asking him questions. 

“Are you alright?”

Oh, no, absolutely not, he thought. But he opened his mouth and words would not come. In their place was a tide of bitterness. He felt hands on his back and suddenly he was rolling, crushing his aching arm, and a sour gush was rising up and it was warm on his lips and chin and cheek. He gagged on the taste of a mouthful of bile and he was so thirsty that he had no tears to cry.

Then he felt warm hands lift him up, and he was bouncing and flying through the wind, and then it stopped. He was on something hard in a warm room and he was shaking because people kept taking his clothes off and asking him questions.

Louis had been there, he was sure of it, because he knew exactly how that hand fit when it wrapped around his own and exactly where his hand fit around that wrist and exactly when he would squeeze.

But he opened his eyes and he was somewhere softer and Louis wasn’t there. He tried to call for him, but he was so dry that the name caught and stuck in his throat, and all that came out was a shapeless groan.

Who was taking the rest of his clothes? And what were they slipping over his arms? Why were they lifting his legs? Now a blanket was on top of him, and another one just for his feet and something under his head—a pillow? He sank in and felt warm and didn’t call out because this couldn’t be a bad place if someone was holding a glass of sweet liquid to his lips and helping him drink. Not even if it was cold and wet on his chin and chest.

Then he heard steps, and a small hand took his exactly the right way, and a broader hand stroked his head. A head leaned close and lips kissed his cheek and whispered, “I’m here mon frérot. I am not leaving.” His eyes were already closed, but now he could let every other part of him relax and he floated and drifted as a deep, dreamless sleep unfolded and he felt a hand stroking the soft skin on the inside of his arm. He slept hard, barely sensing hands rolling him, probing where they did not belong, then a soft drip, drip, drip deep within.

Then a deep baritone rumbled, speaking German, and a whiff of rubbing alcohol assaulted his nose. He felt a strong hand on his forearm and something very tight above the crook and fingers were pat, pat, patting. Then a sharp poke and the tight thing was loosened and the poke burned for a moment and then he felt something cool flooding into his vein. He opened his eyes and saw someone with kindly eyes looking down at him, but he didn’t know this man with a gray bristle under his nose and pulled back his arm, making it sting again.

“Steady. Keep your arm still. You need these fluids,” the man said gently. “Just one hour and you won’t be thirsty. One day and you won’t be tired anymore.”

A hand landed on his opposite shoulder and rubbed it with the familiarity of deep friendship. “It’s alright, _mon pote_ , Doktor Magnusson is giving you some medicine to make you all better. Relax. _Fais dodo et fais de beaux rêves_.”


	9. À L'Infirmerie

“Newkirk’s not running around on missions more than anyone else is, is he, Colonel Hogan?” Wilson asked.

Hogan pondered the question and grasped the implications. “No,” he answered soberly. “It’s the same for me, Carter, and LeBeau, and nearly the same for a few other guys. And he’s the only one getting skinnier.”

“It’s simply that he won’t eat,” LeBeau said. He didn’t pretend to understand the British palate, but he was disappointed that his attempts to tempt Pierre to eat more had been largely unsuccessful. It was more frustrating because he’d done it before. He’d saved Pierre from the brink of starvation in the winter of 1940-41 when they were both new in camp. It had taken months to get him to stop vomiting and to put some weight on his frame, but eventually he pulled it off.

Newkirk had revealed himself to be picky, but for well over a year, he had thrived on what LeBeau could whip up, and he even branched out to sample a few vegetables and a couple of well-blended soups. Lately, however, everything had gone backwards. First food held no interest for him, even with LeBeau always offering him the choicest of everything, from the thickest slice of bread to the least moldy potato to the butter and jam he swiped from the Sergeants’ mess. Then in recent weeks his lack of interest gave way to repulsion.

Wilson seemed to have anticipated what LeBeau was thinking. “You’ve done your best, LeBeau. It’s hard for anyone in this camp to get enough to eat, and it’s even harder because he’s fussy. Something has turned him off to eating,” he said.

“He must be sick, right? He was throwing up,” Hogan said. “That’s got to be the explanation.”

LeBeau and Wilson were shaking their heads simultaneously. “He’s sick now, but I don’t think there’s a physiological basis for this weight loss, Colonel. I examine all these men once a month, and I’ve checked him over pretty thoroughly twice this week. I can run some tests, but I think this is simply disordered eating.”

“Disordered eating? Meaning what, it’s all in his head?” Hogan asked. He was starting to look alarmed.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Sir. I mean to say that he has poor eating habits to begin with, and they get worse in irregular, chaotic environments, like the one we’re in,” Wilson said. “I, um, I get the impression from a few things he’s said that he didn’t have enough food growing up.”

“ _Oui_ , that is true,” LeBeau said.

“And he was horribly sick when he got here. His medical records are very clear on that point, Sir,” Wilson added, tapping on the file.

At that, LeBeau raised his hand in front of him as if he could push away a painful memory. “ _Il était malade tout le temps_ ,” he mumbled.

“Chronic gastrointestinal illnesses take a toll. I’m sure LeBeau could tell us stories,” Wilson said, shaking his head. “Colonel, for a lot of us, food is comfort. But when food is a source of stress because there’s never enough of it, or because it makes us feel sick, eating can become very uncomfortable.”

He let that sink in, then raised a new topic. “Our immediate issue is that he has become very dehydrated,” Wilson said. “You saw me pinching his skin; it shouldn’t take even half a second for it to snap back to normal. Is he drinking anything at all, LeBeau?”

“He usually drinks coffee on and off, and he has his tea a few times a day, LeBeau said. “But lately he has been off the coffee.”

“Water?”

“Hardly ever,” LeBeau said. “He says he doesn’t trust it if it’s not boiled.”

“I wouldn’t either if I’d had dysentery,” Wilson said, drumming his fingers. “What about that supplement I gave you?”

“The Horlick’s? Oh, yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I mixed it with hot milk and he liked it. There’s no accounting for taste, _mon ami_. But he wouldn’t finish it. And after the first time, he refused it,” LeBeau said, sounding despondent.

“Did he say why?” Wilson persisted.

LeBeau stopped to think. “ _Oui_. Something about not wanting to drink before going to bed. And the next day he complained about the drink splashing around in his stomach. He said he could hear it.”

Hogan scoffed, but it was a sound of bewilderment, not disdain. “He could hear it?”

“That’s gastroparesis,” Wilson said. “It’s the sensation you get when your stomach’s not emptying. Smaller meals will help with that. But we’ve got to start by getting some fluids into him. Let’s go check on him.”

**XXX**

Wilson led LeBeau and Hogan into the infirmary. Newkirk had been assigned the last bed in the row, just past Fleming with his tibia fracture and leg ulcer. A curtain was drawn around his bed, and when they went inside it they found Mallory holding a cup to Newkirk’s lips, a mixture of sugar and salt in water that was intended to help him begin rehydrating.

But it wasn’t going well. As they entered, the water came back up and the patient was soaked. He looked up miserably for a moment, then closed his eyes as LeBeau came to his side and took his hand, squeezing it in a gesture of reassurance. “It’s alright, _mon fr_ _érot_ , I am right here,” he said gently, then kissed his cheek and looked up, daring anyone to say a word.

Hogan came around the other side of Newkirk’s bed and laid a hand on his head, stroking it, while Mallory and Wilson stepped away to confer.

“Magnusson will be here, but not until late afternoon,” Mallory said. “He suggested we proceed with oral rehydration but as you can see he’s not holding it down, Sarge.”

Wilson sighed. “A nutrient enema, then,” he said quietly. “He’s not going to like it, but it will help stabilize him.” He patted Mallory on the arm. “Get Ripley to assist you. And bring me a clean gown for him.”

As Mallory hustled away, Wilson turned to his patient, whose eyes had fluttered shut. “Hey, Newkirk,” he said. “Peter?”

“Hmmm,” Newkirk replied, barely aware of his surroundings.

“Did you like that Horlick’s I gave you?”

“Mmmm. Tastes good,” Newkirk murmured. “Where’s Louis?” he asked, tightening his hand on LeBeau’s wrist.

“He’s right here, Son.” Wilson unlatched Newkirk’s hand from LeBeau’s arm and wrapped LeBeau’s hand around it. “So you liked the Horlick’s? Do you think you could drink some more for me?” Wilson probed.

“I dunno,” Newkirk mumbled. “No… not before bedtime,” he said, his voice fading. His head lolled to one side, oblivious to his surroundings.

Mallory returned, handed over a clean gown, and was gone again.

“All, let’s get him into something dry,” Wilson said. He showed Hogan how to lift Newkirk up, and then he and LeBeau pulled off the damp hospital gown and slipped on the fresh one. Newkirk was snoring gently when they laid him back down to wait for Doktor Magnusson.


	10. Affamé

His brain was foggy, but he could add.

White coat

\+ Syringe

\+ Man with concerned eyes

\-------------

Doctor

That makes me a patient, Peter concluded as he lay in a bright, airy room with crisp sheets beneath him and a warm blanket on top. His eyelids fluttered open briefly, then dropped shut from their weight. He tried to raise a hand to let someone know he was there, but he couldn’t command his muscles.

He heard the man speaking German but couldn’t sort through it. _Keep still. You need fluids. Thirsty. Tired._ He got that much. He smelled the alcohol, felt the poke in his arm. Ow.

Then he felt that hand on his shoulder, a hand he knew well, rubbing just the way he liked it. He felt breath in his ear, whispering “It’s alright, _mon pote_ , Doktor Magnusson is giving you some medicine to make you all better. Relax. _Fais dodo et fais de beaux rêves_.”

Louis was here.

“LeBeau, help me up,” Peter said. “Something’s dripping in my bum.” The strange trickling sensation was tickling him and he didn’t like it.

It didn’t sound like words to anyone else. It sounded like a whimper.

“What is he trying to say?” a deeper voice asked. He knew that one too. American. Colonel. Hogan. Gov.

Louis was crouched down so he could hear Peter’s whispers. “He feels the tube. He doesn’t like the treatment.”

“Is that thing absolutely necessary?” Hogan asked. “It has to be uncomfortable for him.”

“It was necessary until I got here,” the doctor replied calmly. “He needed fluids. I’ll remove it in a moment. These intravenous fluids are now the preferred approach, and you’ll see an improvement by morning. Towel, please.”

Peter could feel terrycloth being arranged behind him and tucked under his hip. Then there was a hand holding him firmly from behind, followed by a gentle tug, and slow release. Then four hands were on him, arranging him on his back where he could lie more comfortably.

“There. It’s out,” the doctor said. “There’s usually no discharge when one is this dehydrated, because the fluids are absorbed rapidly. But check in half an hour. Now, how did he get into this state?”

“It seems like a severe food aversion,” said another voice. American too. He knew that one. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the name. It would come to him. “He stopped eating. He stopped drinking.”

“He can’t afford aversions, but it happens sometimes,” the doctor said. “It’s hard to explain. You’ll need to get to the bottom of it.”

“We’re trying,” the American said. Wilson. That was it.

“The morning will be better. I’ll be back to check on him. He needs to begin taking food by mouth. Small amounts in frequent meals. Anything you can get into him.”

“Thank you, Dockor Magnusson.”

Footsteps trailed away. A hand caressed his forehead. “No fever.”

He shivered, and in barely an instant another blanket covered him.

“We’ll get him better, you’ll see.” It was Wilson.

“I’ll stay. I’ll feed him myself,” Louis said.

**XXX**

He could feel the drip, drip, drip in his veins. The fog was lifting. The haze was clearing. He opened his eyes and saw Louis and the Colonel. He tried to smile.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” Hogan said. “You’re OK.” He felt a broad, cool hand on his cheek and leaned into it.

He wasn’t crying. He was sure of that. But that didn’t stop the Colonel.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he said. “Louis, talk to him.”

“You’re alright, _mon pote_. _Chut, chut._ We are right here with you. I want you to drink something.” Louis held a glass to his lips. First he could feel its cool smoothness, then cold wetness. It dribbled down his chin but mostly it went down his throat and it felt so good.

“Good boy. You need to drink. And later, you will eat. Anything you like, we will get for you. Schultzie promised.” A hand wiped his cheek. "You'll be alright."

He closed his eyes. “Can’t drink any more. Nana will be cross.”

“What? Who will be cross?”

“Mavis will get in trouble and it will be all my fault.” He closed his eyes and was sleeping again.

“I couldn’t hear that.”

“Something about Mavis.”

“He needs to rest. It’s good he drank something. We’ll try some broth when he wakes up.”

**XXX**

Sunlight was flooding the infirmary, the only prisoners’ building in the compound with proper windows. Peter could feel the warmth of rays on his face and his blanket as he woke up. A man—it was that German doctor—was fiddling with the tubes that were connected to the crook of Peter’s arm. He smiled down and spoke in English.

“You are in the infirmary, and you are looking better. These fluids are helping.” He gestured to the tubing, then pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat. “You see, the nutrients are going into your veins, directly into your bloodstream to make you healthier.”

Peter nodded, unable to come up with a response to all that information.

The doctor patted his shoulder. “Your friend will be right back. I sent him to get your breakfast from the sergeants’ mess. You’ll eat something today.” 

“Tea?” Peter asked softly.

“You English, with your tea. Of course,” Doktor Magnusson said with a laugh. “He’s bringing it.” Peter's eyes followed him as he stood and stretched, then walked off to busy himself with another patient.

LeBeau entered the infirmary and the only reason he didn’t break into a trot was because he was carrying a food tray. “Pierre!” he called out from the entrance. “You’re awake.”

Peter didn’t know why his chin was trembling, or why his face was wet by the time Louis put down the tray. But as he felt LeBeau settle onto the edge of the bed and lean forward, he found the strength to tip himself forward. Louis gathered him up and Peter settled into the embrace, breathing deeply.

After a few minutes, LeBeau laid him back down, his hand stroking Peter’s arm. “It’s morning,” he said. “Time to eat.”

“Not hungry. Just tea,” Peter said softly. 

“Yes, here is your tea. Take a sip,” LeBeau said. “You have a scrambled egg, and it tastes better when it’s hot.”

Peter winced at the sight of it, but when LeBeau held out a fork he obediently took a bite, and then another and then another. It wasn’t so bad.

“Good boy,” LeBeau told him calmly. “You had broth and tea and water and juice all night long, but that was your first solid food, Pierre. Soon it won’t be so hard to eat again, you’ll see.”

Eating what was put to his lips was easy. He didn’t have to decide to eat. He didn't have to think about the food or even look at it. Instead, he looked in Louis’s eyes and listened. He knew he was being good, so he didn’t have to worry about anything. It wouldn’t hurt Mavis if he ate this. His father wasn't hitting him. Nana wasn't yelling at him. No one was saying he shouldn’t have it or that he was wasting it.

It was just Louis coaxing him to take a sip and a bite and caring for him tenderly. He closed his eyes, sighed and slept.


	11. Peu à Peu Sortant de la Brume

He was drifting peacefully when an insistent voice caught his attention. “Pierre… Pierre,” it began, before switching to “Peter, Peter open your eyes.”

He blinked awake and there in the white haze of a brightly lit room was a wavering patch of brown and red. He squinted the patch into focus, and now he could see a red sweater, brown trousers, a thatch of dark hair, and piercing dark brown eyes. He flickered his eyelids and then he saw a smile, radiating warmth.

“Where…” he said softly, but the word got stuck. “Where…”

“You are here with me and you are alright, _mon frérot_. Here. Drink.” Louis. It was Louis. He pressed a glass to his lips and Peter—yes, he remembered, that was his name—took a sip then coughed and sputtered.

“Ah, ah,” Louis said, pulling him up with surprising speed by the front of his shirt. “That’s what I get for rushing you. You need to sit up to drink.” He adjusted the bed and packed pillows behind Peter. “There. Better?”

Peter nodded. He looked around. His bed was up high, though not as high as his bunk, and a white curtain was pulled around it. He could hear the patter of feet and the creaking of beds, even the clanking of trays, but the sounds were muffled and distant, not harsh and close.

Quiet lay over the room like a feather comforter. It was calm in here. He could breathe.

Peter half sat, half reclined as Louis offered him sips of something sweet. “What is it?” he asked.

“Apple juice,” Louis replied with a shrug. “Wilson thought you would like it.” He paused. “Do you?”

Peter nodded. It was sweet and smooth and the taste was familiar. As he sipped, a head popped in through the curtain. Peter didn’t remember his name, only knew he was American. He saw his smile and heard him say. “Good. I’ll bring you something for him.”

As the last drop of juice vanished, his head started to wobble and his eyes drooped shut. He could feel himself breathing deeply as a hand—Louis’s hand—slowly stroked his head. He could hear Louis murmuring, “I’m here with you. I’m not going away,” and that meant he could rest.

He woke again at the sound of ceramic touching wood and then metal scraping ceramic. Louis, sitting at his bedside, was facing the small side table and stirring a bowl, then lifting up a spoon and blowing on it. “Still too hot,” he said. “We’ll let it cool down.” He turned face Peter and wrapped one hand around his forearm, letting the other one rest on his belly.

“Does anything hurt?” Louis asked as he stroked his belly gently.

Peter shook his head lazily, then drew in a deep breath. He was safe because Louis was here. His eyes were closed, but he smiled. His belly wasn’t sour or stuffed or soggy or swishy.

“Good boy,” Louis said. “Just rest.” Peter heard him get to his feet, and winced, hoping his _grand frère_ was not leaving. But then he felt a soft kiss press his forehead and heard the chair creak and Louis sat down again. Peter felt himself sinking deeper into the soft pillows behind him.

A long moment later, Peter heard the scrape of a spoon again, and something warm and soft was being held to his lips. He took a taste, felt its buttery sweetness on his tongue. It was easy to swallow because Louis gave it to him, and nobody was talking about it, and it was smooth and creamy porridge. He felt heat spread in his center as the food settled pleasantly in his belly, and the comfort it provided lulled him back to a light sleep. As he rested, another voice seeped into his awareness.

“How is he doing, LeBeau?”

“Much better, _mon Colonel_. He’s drinking well and he is eating whatever I offer him. He had a scrambled egg _et de la bouillie_ … ah, Pierre would say ‘porridge.’”

“Oatmeal,” Hogan said.

“Something like that, but smoother to make sure he would eat it. I instructed the cook; he did very well.”

“He’s still sleeping a lot.”

“Wilson says that’s normal. Tomorrow will be better.”

“Good,” Hogan said. Peter could feel a hand taking his and gently rubbing his palm and his wrist. “What’s on the lunch menu?”

“ _Purée de pommes des terres avec sauce,_ ” LeBeau replied. “Mashed potatoes with gravy, your barbaric language,” he added with a laugh. “I instructed…”

“… ‘instructed the cook; he did very well.’ Good work, LeBeau. Peter needs you right now. Are you comfortable with staying another night?”

“I wouldn’t stay anywhere else,” LeBeau said.

Peter slept, then ate mashed potatoes and drank water. He slept some more, then ate applesauce. He slept once more, than had toast and tea. He didn’t have to think about putting food in his mouth because Louis did that for him.

The next day passed in much the same way, though Peter was more wakeful. He didn’t look at food or think about it, just ate what he was given.

Three days after he collapsed on the parade ground, he woke up with an unfamiliar sensation. An awareness of hollowness; a craving. It took Peter a while to place it until Louis put down a cup of tea and a plate of scrambled eggs. He was hungry, and for the first time in weeks, Peter reached for the fork.

Louis, seated by his side, smiled in relief. Wilson, entering the room, nodded at the sight. It was a milestone, he thought. And now the real work could begin.


	12. Le Connoisseur

Food was joy to Louis LeBeau. Choosing food, preparing food, serving food, consuming food. He was a man of refined taste and passion for whom dining was more than sustenance. It elevated the spirit, warmed the soul, united friends and family, transported mortals to a higher realm.

So it wounded him to see how desolate Peter Newkirk’s experience of eating was. He ached at the emptiness Pierre must feel. And yet it made sense, and not just because he believed English food to be an abomination. No, because food really was that powerful. Anything that could impart so much satisfaction when it was good could surely provoke pain too when it was bad or absent. Louis understood this, and he knew Pierre had grown up hungry.

Louis was fierce in his protection of all his friends, but above all, this friend. His Pierre. They had been through torment and deprivation together. Time and again in Stalag 13, they had rescued one another’s bodies from disease and injury, but more importantly they had rescued one another’s souls from despair. No one but the two of them really understood how close they had both been to giving up and choosing oblivion, though Colonel Hogan had an idea. There was a certain weary look they exchanged whenever the topic of life before the Americans’ arrival was raised.

One of Louis's gifts, one quality that made it possible for Pierre to trust him, was Louis’s capacity for apprehending what was true without having to be told. He didn’t need all the details to understand that Pierre had been teased and mistreated relentlessly for his stutter, or to understand that his picky eating invited similar scrutiny. He did know that being watched and noticed but not understood made Pierre miserable, and that he had developed dozens of ways to deflect attention from himself, from telling jokes to talking about girls to arguing relentlessly. He’d rather be in trouble for picking a pocket or picking a fight than be noticed for the things he couldn’t control, like stammering over his name or gagging on a meal.

When Pierre picked up a fork for the first time in weeks to willingly eat, Louis’s heart leapt. He was emerging from whatever despair had trapped him this time. But Louis also knew from experience that the way out of pain was never a straight or easy path for Pierre. It was rugged terrain, with starts and stops.

One thing was abundantly clear to Louis: Pierre had to eat or he would die. 

And his friend was not going to die. Not here, not in this Nazi prison. If he had to hand-feed Pierre for the rest of the war, he would do it, and anyone who didn’t like it could go to hell.

Pierre might never find the pleasure in eating and drinking that Louis knew was possible, but perhaps he could find the contentment of falling asleep with a full belly and knowing he would be fed again the next time he was hungry.

Because Pierre was hungry, Louis knew, but not only for food. He was hungry for peace and calm and acceptance and love.

Louis could start with calm and acceptance. Pierre was going to eat without being disturbed or having to feel bad. And anything he thought or felt about it was alright with Louis. But he was going to eat.

Louis LeBeau was a connoisseur of many things. He knew fine ingredients and he knew the best restaurants. He knew exemplary culinary technique and he knew an elegant meal. He knew food, wine, art, music, and women.

Yet above all, he knew friends, because without friendship those other pursuits were as empty as a starving child’s stomach. And Pierre was his best friend. His family. His frérot.


	13. Un Cœur Sous-Alimenté

Losing one of his key men to the infirmary was hard for Colonel Hogan. Losing two was putting a noticeable strain on the operation.

Carter had gone out on yet another mission that ordinarily would have fallen to Newkirk and LeBeau: Retrieving some documents from an attractive and unmarried Underground agent in town. Carter didn’t know how to look the part of an interested beau, but Hogan needed him to step up. He had sent Mills along so that they could tag-team with agent Alabaster.

And they handled it. They handled it just fine. It was only after Carter and Mills returned that Hogan had any cause for concern.

It was midnight, and Carter was lost in thought as he sat in the Colonel’s office for his debriefing, with a sour look on his face that might have passed for indigestion in any other man in the camp. He gave a matter-of-fact report without his usual enthusiasm, and he let Mills brag a little about the close call they’d had with a night watchman in front of the bank and a couple of Army officers at the Hofbräu. 

Except when Hogan dismissed them both, Carter didn’t leave. He sat at the table in Colonel Hogan’s office, looking down. It finally hit Hogan that Carter was mad about something, which was a noteworthy development, because as far as Hogan could recall, Carter had never actually been mad.

“Something on your mind, Carter?” Hogan asked as he took a seat at the table beside the sergeant.

“Sort of,” Carter murmured. Then he looked up. “Yes, sir. Colonel?”

“Yes, Carter?”

“How’s Newkirk doing?”

Hogan nodded. Of course, that was it. Carter was annoyed because he hadn’t been allowed to see his pal—no one had, except LeBeau and Hogan, on Wilson’s strict orders. It wasn’t that Newkirk was contagious or anything. It was just … a delicate situation.

“He seems to be doing a little better each day, Carter. He started to eat on his own yesterday,” Hogan replied.

Carter nodded and smiled. “That’s really good. Once he gets his appetite back up, he’ll start feeling like his old self.”

“That’s exactly what Wilson said. He just needed a breakthrough and now he’s getting back to normal. He should be back here in a day or two.”

“Once he’s back in the barracks, it’ll be hard again, though,” Carter said. “He should stay in the infirmary for a while.”

Hogan looked at Carter, searching his face for an explanation. He expected Carter, of all people, to want Newkirk back in Barracks 2 so things could get back to a normal routine. They all missed the Stalag 13 version of normal anytime it was disrupted, because it was all they really had.

“The goal is to get him back here as quickly as possible, Carter. Once he’s eating steadily, LeBeau can keep him going here in the barracks,” Hogan said. “He’s done this before.”

“Yeah, but not with …” Carter huffed out deep breath. “Not with an audience like the one we have now. He was sick, but that was before us Americans got here."

Hogan looked at Carter quizzically. He didn’t have to ask him to elaborate; Carter just forged ahead.

“Colonel, the other guys in the barracks know why Louis cooks special meals for us. They know we get more food because we need energy for all the missions we have to complete. It doesn’t make it any easier on them to watch us eating, though,” Carter said.

“OK,” Hogan said thoughtfully. “I can try to make sure LeBeau makes more for them too. We do use them more than the other men in the camp, so they need their strength too. We can justify requesting something extra from London.” He wasn't sure he could make a request fly, but he was willing to try.

“That might help, Sir, but the real problem is they’ve decided that Newkirk wastes food, and that ticks them off.” The expression on Carter’s face made perfectly clear that he did not appreciate any meddling in the core team’s business, especially when it came to his closest pal.

Hogan swallowed. He felt the same way sometimes, actually. There wasn’t a man in the camp who didn’t feel hunger pangs most days. It frustrated him to see Newkirk pass up the perfectly good food that LeBeau prepared, but he had learned that it was better not to call attention to it. There was some kind of weird dance going on between the Englishman and the Frenchman, and Hogan didn’t know the steps well enough to cut in.

“They don’t have any right to be mad, Sir," Carter said, with fury creeping into this voice. "They don’t know why it’s hard for Newkirk to eat sometimes. They think he’s being picky, but he’s not. It’s like his stutter, Sir. It’s not something he’s doing on purpose or that he can fix just like that,” he said with a snap of his fingers. “They’ve just made him the scapegoat, and Peter can feel it.”

A light bulb finally went off in Hogan’s head. “Did Mills say something to you?” he asked.

Carter hung his head. He was so easy to read, Hogan realized. Not like certain team members that he could think of. Carter wasn’t angry about not being able to see Newkirk; he understood why he was isolated with LeBeau. No, he was angry at Mills.

“I don’t want to rat on him, Sir, because Mills did a really good job tonight, and I know he’s a good guy deep down,” Carter said. “But he was lecturing me on how we needed to toughen up with Newkirk and just tell him ‘waste not, want not.’ And how Newkirk probably wasn’t raised the right way, because everyone knows it’s a shame and a sin to waste food.”

“Well, I don’t agree with any of that,” Hogan said. “And it’s not anyone else’s business how we handled this. It’s a tricky situation involving an essential team member.”

“Yes, Sir, I know that. But you might need to have a word with some of the other guys to get them to, you know, back off on Newkirk. He needs time to figure out how to eat without everyone harping on him. It’s not his fault, Sir.”

“Is it just Mills?”

“He says Davis and Bartoli and Addison and a few other guys all agree,” Carter said. “The thing is, they all want to be on the team, too, Sir, so they can get more to eat.”

Hogan nodded. He was supposed to be the perceptive one, but sometimes he missed what was right under his nose, and Carter, of all people, saw it before he did. Low-grade jealousy over who got what to eat was causing friction in the barracks, and somehow Newkirk was bearing the brunt of it.

**XXX**

It was past midnight, and LeBeau was slouched in the chair next to Peter’s bed in the infirmary when Wilson stopped by. He shook his shoulder gently to wake him.

“You don’t have to stay,” Wilson said quietly. “He’s settling down.”

“No. He’ll be worse quickly if I go,” LeBeau replied. “It’s alright. I have to look after him.”

“You don’t. We have a medical staff for that,” Wilson said. “You can come see him, but you need to rest too.”

“I promised him,” LeBeau said wearily. “We promised to take care of one another. It’s what we do. And he will go hungry if I don’t feed him.”

Wilson nodded, but he looked puzzled. “He’s eating on his own now, LeBeau. I know he wasn’t strong enough at first, but now…”

“Yes, he can lift his arm now,” LeBeau snapped. He immediately regretted his tone; Wilson was only trying to help. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. We let him get so weak. He can feed himself now, and he’s mostly doing that.”

“Mostly?” Wilson asked. “LeBeau, he’s capable…”

“Wilson, please,” LeBeau said. “Perhaps he is capable, but if I need to coax him to eat, I will, and if I need put the spoon to his mouth, I will do that. He is just beginning to eat. We have done this before. It takes time.”

Wilson leaned over to check if Newkirk was asleep, and was satisfied that he was. So he pulled in a chair and sat down beside LeBeau. “What is going through his head, LeBeau? Why is this happening?”

“I don’t know yet,” LeBeau said, scraping a hand over his scratchy beard. “He starts to remember things from when he was small. They don’t always make sense. He woke from a sound sleep before, mumbling that he was in trouble because his clothes got wet. But he grew up in London; it’s always wet there.”

“His shirt was pretty wet when you brought him into the infirmary,” Wilson said. “But we got him into something dry and he settled down. What else?”

LeBeau shrugged. “He’s calling for his sister Mavis. He’s remembering his father and grandmother hitting him. He’s running away. It’s always those memories that haunt him. Except for Mavis, there was no one to care for him, and he was in trouble all the time. It’s what his life was.”

“Where was his mother?”’

“Very sick. Gone from their home before he was five. Dead of consumption by the time he was eight.”

Wilson went silent for a long moment, then he spoke up. “I’m not a medical doctor, you know.”

“I know that,” LeBeau said. “But you have training?”

“Yes, of course. My point is, I'm not an MD, but I _am_ a doctor. I got my PhD in psychology,” Wilson said.

“Ah. Yes,” LeBeau said slowly. “It makes sense, the way you notice things.”

“Humor behavior is complicated, LeBeau,” Wilson said. Newkirk suddenly jolted in his sleep, and Wilson and LeBeau each laid a hand on him until he settled down. “This eating problem, it’s a way he’s learned to react to pressure and, uh, probably fear.”

“What fear?” LeBeau said defensively. “He’s not afraid of anything. Not ordinary things, anyway.”

“He hates being looked at and noticed and talked about,” Wilson said. “Those are his fears, LeBeau.” Wilson paused to let the observation sink in, then spoke again.

“Look, most people have a few foods they’d rather avoid,” he said. “But this is quite different. There aren’t many foods Newkirk feels capable of eating. He has some really bad associations with food, and we’re never going to break this cycle until we figure out what they are and why they’re still controlling him.”


	14. Un nouveau rhythme

Hogan looked down the row of patients in the infirmary and prepared himself. He was going to check in personally on each man, and he was glad to do it. Part of any officer’s job was to uplift and encourage his men, and the sick and injured men of LuftStalag 13 deserved no less.

But the truth was that he was there to see one patient. He took Wilson by the elbow before he greeted any of the others. “How’s our boy this morning?” Hogan asked, and there was no question who he meant.

”Combative as hell,” Wilson replied. “LeBeau could use a break.”

Hogan clapped a hand to his forehead. Some things never changed. It was almost pleasant to have Newkirk flat on his back and too sick to argue for a few days.

Wilson read the look and leaned in. “It’s a good sign, Sir. He’s got some fight in him.”

Hogan raised his eyebrows, then nodded. He supposed that was right. He still felt a burst of nostalgia for Quiet Newkirk. He didn’t see enough of that guy.

He worked his way down the sick ward, bed by bed, finding out how each of the men was doing. As he neared Bed 7 at the end of the line, the old familiar sound of a Cockney voice arguing grew louder.

”It’s too much food,” he groused.

”I know it seems that way. Keep going. Pick up your fork. All the way up.”

”I already ate most of it.”

”Oui, but most is not all. Just a few more bites and you will be done.”

”It looks funny.”

”I understand. You’re not sure about how it looks. I promise you, it is perfectly fine. Do you need me to help?”

”No,” Peter grumbled.

“Alright then, lift your fork to your mouth. Like that, good boy.”

As Hogan listened to the conversation happening behind a white curtain, he realized something was different. There was no scolding in LeBeau’s tone, and no criticism. He was encouraging and directing Peter to eat and not taking no for an answer, and he was doing so in a tone that was both gentle and insistent.

“It’s going to take forever to finish,” Peter whined. A utensil clattered onto a tray.

”We have all the time you need,” LeBeau replied. “You don’t need to hurry. I can wait.”

”But it’s too much food,” Peter repeated. His voice was breaking a little now.

”Yes, I know you said that. It’s actually the right amount of food. I know what you need to be healthy and I promise it is not too much. May I help?”

Peter replied with a grunt.

“It’s not a problem. I’ll help you. Open up. Take another bite.” He paused. “Good. You’re doing it, Pierre. Yes, you see? You’re eating it. Here, now you try.”

Hogan checked his watch. It was 9:37 in the morning. What time had breakfast started?

Wilson came up behind him and, having seen Hogan check the time, grasped what he was wondering.

”Eight o’clock,” he whispered. “Eggs, toast, porridge, stewed apples and tea. It’s more than he’s used to. LeBeau’s doing great with him, but they're both tired.”

Hogan took in what Wilson had just explained. An hour and a half for breakfast, and they still weren’t done? “You’re making him eat everything?”

”He has to, Sir. He’s lost too much weight. He needs three meals and three snacks a day if we’re going to have a hope of turning him around.” He looked at Hogan’s shocked expression. “It’s serious, Sir. He has to eat more. Go on in, Sir. They’ll both be glad to see you.” 

Hogan nodded again, the put on his best smile and parted the curtains. “How’s The Hundred Years War going?”

”The French are still winning, mon colonel,” LeBeau said cheerfully.

”We don’t want to rule your bloody kingdom anyway,” Peter said, with a hint of cheek in his voice. He pushed away his plate, but LeBeau pushed it right back at him and gestured at the spoon. Sighing, Peter lifted it and took another taste of porridge. He was actually making more headway than Hogan would have guessed. The porridge was nearly gone, and only crumbs were left on a plate that had held eggs and toast.

Hogan settled into a chair at Peter’s bedside. He knew better than to comment on his progress, so instead he reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. “For you,” he told Peter.

”From Mavis,” Peter said, examining the envelope. “Thank you, Sir,” he added, acknowledging his CO for the first time. Hogan could see by the way Peter looked up that he was embarrassed by his behavior, and he patted his leg to tell him it was OK. Peter was about to open the letter when LeBeau intercepted and gently removed it from his hands.

”Once you are done, you’ll have time to read,” he said. 

Peter started to protest, but he realized it was hopeless. He sighed and picked up his spoon.

”The porridge is cold,” he complained.

”That’s what happens,” LeBeau said. “But you’re almost done. Keep going.” He watched Peter take up his spoon again smiled at Hogan.

Motivated by the prospect of news from his sister, Peter diligently finished off his food, then extended his hand. “My letter, please?” LeBeau handed it over.

Peter had just torn into the letter when an orderly appeared to clear away the food tray. Moments later, he was back, with a razor, warm water, soap, and towels.

Peter groaned. “I don’t want a bleeding bath,” he whined. "I want to read my letter."

“It will just take ten minutes,” said the orderly, a Welshman whose name was Bevan, as he removed the letter from Peter’s hand.

“We’ll step out to give you some privacy,” Hogan said, tugging LeBeau by the elbow. He needed a minute alone with him.


	15. Peur de tomber

The sun was beating down on the window at the far end of the infirmary where Hogan had led LeBeau. The glass panes were taped in case of air raids, casting X marks on the floor. LeBeau was drenched in sunlight, and Hogan could read exhaustion on his face and in his posture. But he didn’t dare say it, not right away.

“He’s eating a bit better for you?” Hogan asked.

“He’s eating everything I give him. He’s not happy about it, but he’s doing it,” LeBeau replied. He tipped his head down, then looked back up to face Hogan squarely. “He knows he’s put himself in danger again, Sir. He’s trying, even though it might not sound like it.”

Hogan nodded. He recognized the effort. Hogan also knew his English corporal well enough to know that when a whine crept into his voice, he wasn’t being defiant, because that wasn’t what defiance sounded like with him. That was the helplessness of being sick and afraid.

Right now, however, Hogan was getting concerned about the man standing in front of him. LeBeau’s face was drawn, and dark circles had formed under his eyes.

“How about you? Have you eaten?”

“Of course. Someone has to set an example,” LeBeau replied. He tugged at his jacket collar. “ _Mon Dieu_ , it’s warm over here.”

“Yes, we’re standing in a hot spot. LeBeau, you have to get some rest. You can’t help Newkirk if you don’t rest,” Hogan said.

“I know, _mon Colonel_. I’ll sleep later. There will be an empty bed this afternoon when Bertrand is released. He’s over the stomach virus, and Wilson said I could bunk there until someone else needs the bed.” LeBeau tugged at his collar again and looked queasy. Suddenly his eyes rolled back.

“LeBeau?” Hogan said in alarm.

LeBeau’s knees went out from under him. Hogan caught him before he hit the ground. He sat him on the floor and unbuttoned his coat. LeBeau rubbed beads of sweat from his forehead.

“You’re exhausted,” Hogan said. “You’re going to bed.”

“You win, _mon Colonel_. I do need to sleep,” LeBeau said. “But someone has to stay with Pierre and make sure he keeps eating.” The pleading look in his eyes left no doubt as to who LeBeau thought should take his place. “Please, Colonel Hogan. He needs someone who can be kind but firm.”

Hogan ran through his options. “Kind but firm” ruled out Carter; no one was nicer, but Newkirk would run circles around him if he tried to tell him what to do. Olsen would only annoy Newkirk and they’d end up arguing. Kinch was patient and authoritative, but he was needed to manage logistics with London all day. Baker and Garlotti were too laid back.

It looked like he was elected. His men would know where to find him.

“Alright, I’ll stay with him,” Hogan sighed. “But first let’s get you back to your bunk. You get some sleep and come back when you’re rested. Just tell me what to do in the meantime.” Hogan hauled LeBeau to his feet and once he was sure he was steady, he supported him on the walk across the compound to Barracks 2.

He had just settled LeBeau on his bunk when the Frenchman tugged at his jacket. His eyes were closed, but he had something urgent to say.

“Do you remember the first time you jumped out of an airplane, _mon Colonel_?”

“Of course,” Hogan replied. “Nobody ever forgets that first time. It was scary as hell.” _Oh, brother, he’s so tired that he’s hallucinating_ , Hogan thought.

“But you did it anyway, because you felt confident the parachute would open,” LeBeau said.

“Right. I knew it would work.” Where was this discussion going?

“How did you know?” LeBeau challenged him. His dark brown eyes were open now, and were boring into Hogan’s. Now he had the Colonel’s full attention.

“Well, I know how a parachute works,” Hogan said. “I know the science.” LeBeau looked skeptical, so he went on. “A parachute cushions your fall because of the air resistance on the surface area of the fabric. It creates an air drag, pushing the parachute up and counteracting the force of gravity. As long as the cloth design is strong enough to avoid a tear, it will work every time.”

“Yes, that is very logical,” LeBeau allowed. “But that’s not why you jumped. Logic only goes so far when you’re looking down and seeing nothing but open sky. You jumped because somebody was standing beside you telling you it would be alright. Somebody was saying, ‘Trust me. This will work.’”

Hogan nodded. LeBeau was right. Nobody jumped because they had faith in the formulas.

“That’s all I’m doing with Pierre,” LeBeau continued. “He’s afraid to jump. He’s worried he won’t land safely. And I’m telling him I know about these things and he’s going to be fine if he takes the leap.”

Hogan got it. “So don’t talk to him about why he needs to eat. Just tell him I know it will be OK if he does.”

“ _Exactement_ ,” LeBeau replied. “Be confident, tell him you’re sure he’s safe, and tell him I’ll be back soon.”

**XXX**

Ten minutes later, LeBeau was tucked into bed with Carter watching over him, and Kinch and Hogan had exchanged updates. Hogan was back in the infirmary, fully briefed and ready for his new command. He drew open the curtain to Peter’s space and found him sitting up and looking alert. He was brushed up and clean-shaven, with clean sheets to match. Thanks to the Red Cross, the infirmary was an oasis of starch and bleach and hygiene in a dingy, dreary camp.

Peter smiled at Colonel Hogan, but immediately craned his neck to look for someone else. His eyebrows drew together.

“Where’s Louis?” he said in a worried voice.

“I took him back to the barracks to get some rest,” Colonel Hogan said, forcing cheer into his voice. “You’re stuck with me for a while.”

“Oh,” Peter said in a small voice. He managed to look more worried. “Is he alright?”

“He’s been here with you for four days, and he doesn’t have any more sense than you do when it comes to his obsession with taking care of his friends. He’ll be fine once he’s had a little sleep,” Hogan said, leaning an arm onto the head of the iron hospital bed.

“And he’s c-c-coming back?” Peter asked.

“Of course,” Hogan said. He sat down, took Peter’s hand and wondered where his tough soldier had gone. He looked fragile, as if a strong wind would knock him over. His cheekbones were stretched taut, and a blue and purple bruise had spread across his right cheek where he had landed hard when he fell during rollcall. Bony shoulders poked through the hospital gown, and he looked smaller than Hogan remembered him ever looking.

Peter clutched Colonel Hogan’s hand as he bit back his emotions. He had worn Louis out. It was his fault that Louis needed to go away. A lump in his throat reminded him that sometimes he needed Louis too much. He pulled his hand away, lowered himself back onto the pillows and tucked both hands under his arms, eyes up and away from the Colonel. The pressure of his arms crisscrossing his chest helped him regulate the panic he felt at Louis’s absence. Gradually he evened out his breathing and got up the nerve to look at Colonel Hogan. He tipped his head and pursed his lips in a silent apology for causing so much trouble.

“Hey,” Hogan said softly, brushing Peter’s hair from his eyes. “Maybe you should sleep for a little while too. Close your eyes.”

“Will Louis be alright?” Peter asked again, reaching for Colonel Hogan’s hand.

“He’ll be better than new in a few hours, and he’ll come right back to you. I couldn’t keep him away if I tried,” Hogan said. “You should sleep too. Shhh,” he said, feathering his fingers over Peter’s eyelids until drowsiness took over. He tucked Peter’s hand under the blanket and checked his watch; it was just past 10 o’clock, and Louis had left firm instructions for Peter to eat again at 11. Hogan leaned back in his chair and watched his corporal breathing evenly, wondering how long it was going to take to reassemble his team.

**XXX**

Corporal Mallory, the orderly who had taken care of Peter the day he was admitted, turned up at 11 o’clock holding a tray. On it was a mug of something steaming hot and a glass dish containing something white.

“Cocoa and creamed rice, Sir,” Mallory explained as he set the tray down in front of Colonel Hogan. “He should eat all of it. We’re counting calories.”

Hogan nodded and fought the urge to wrinkle his nose. He knew the creamed rice was part of the Red Cross invalid parcels, but he had no idea what it tasted like. “Is it any good?” he asked, poking at the dish with a spoon.

“It’s like rice pudding without the raisins and cinnamon, Sir. It’s bland but sweet, and Newkirk seems to like that,” Mallory said, removing the items from the tray and placing them on Peter’s bed table along with a small box. He stopped and met the Colonel’s quizzical look. “Breakfast, lunch and supper will only sustain his weight, Sir. He needs snacks to regain what he’s lost. Three snacks a day, and he should gain two pounds a week. The invalid parcels help a lot. Sergeant Wilson says ten weeks should do the trick. Says he was too skinny to begin with.”

Ten weeks of this? Twenty pounds? Hogan looked at the sleeping man and had to acknowledge he could use the weight.

“OK, let’s get some food into him,” Hogan said. “Should I wake him up or is it better to wait?”

“No, Colonel, you should wake him up now, and it would be good if you coax him with the first spoonful or two. That’s how LeBeau does it, anyhow. Once Newkirk realizes he likes it, he’ll take over. He’ll complain that it’s too much, but you just keep talking him through it.”  
  
“LeBeau told me. Alright, thanks, Mallory.” He picked up the box. “Raisins? I thought he didn’t like them.”

“He likes them, Sir, just not when they’re mixed in with any other food,” Mallory said. “It’s complicated. Do you need anything, Sir? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be great, actually,” Hogan said. He looked at Newkirk and smirked. “I hate to wake him up. He tends to startle.”

“Oh, that’s easy, Sir. Like this,” Mallory said. He took Newkirk’s hand in both of his and squeezed it gently, massaged the palm with his thumb, then ran his fingers a little way up his forearm. Peter’s eyes started to flutter open.

“Huh. I’ll have to remember that trick,” Hogan said as Mallory nodded and walked off to get the coffee. “Hey, Newkirk, time for a snack.”

“I fell asleep?” Peter muttered through a tired haze.

“Yes, it’s what you’ve been doing. We’ve got some kind of rice pudding here for you. Give it a try,” Hogan said, holding a spoon to his Corporal’s lips.

“I’m not hungry,” Peter grumbled.

“Oh, come on, Newkirk, Louis says you’ve been eating for him,” Hogan replied. “Don’t quit on me now, or you’re going to make me look bad.”

At that, Peter laughed and took a bite, and then another one. As he shook off sleep, he reached for the spoon and grumbled, “Blimey, Sir, I can feed meself.”

A few bites later, and the complaining began.

“It’s too much. It’s turning my stomach to eat so much.”

“You’re eating the right amount, Peter. It’s normal to start noticing your stomach is filling up when you eat,” Hogan said.

Peter sat there stubbornly, twirling the spoon in his fingers. Hogan remembered what LeBeau had done.

“Take another spoonful and bring it up to your lips,” he said.

Nothing.

“I can help if you want,” Hogan said.

Newkirk dropped the spoon angrily. Hogan bit back a scolding, then realized Peter had answered. He meant yes. Help.

Hogan picked up the spoon, scooped up some creamed rice, and held it to Peter’s lips. He tasted it and swallowed it. Hogan did it again and again, and then Peter took the spoon back.

Many tiny bites and thirty solid minutes later, he got it all down, including the cocoa. He was nibbling on the raisins when Mallory came to whisk away his dishes. He gave an approving smile to Peter and a brisk nod to Colonel Hogan. Well done.

Hogan leaned back, gauging Peter's mood. He looked relaxed, though a tinge of worry clung to him. A little humor could help. “You know, Schultz would consider this the perfect life,” Hogan said slyly. “Nothing to do for days on end but sleep and eat.”

Peter grinned at that, but a sadness stayed in his eyes. Hogan noticed it and finally asked softly, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“About what?” Peter replied irritably.

“The elephant in the room,” Hogan answered, keeping his voice low and gentle. “Why you stopped eating.”

Peter pulled a face of mild disgust. “I don’t really know w-w-why, Sir,” he said tentatively. “But I didn’t st-st-stop on purpose. It j-j-just happened.” He went silent, then added, “Ssssometimes it’s easier not to eat than to have everyone looking at me.”

“I think I understand that, and we can fix it,” Hogan said. “Peter, you’re perfectly safe. Trust me.”

Peter turned to him with a look that had hardly appeared on his face since he was a little boy of six or seven--an expression of pure innocence.

"I do trust you, Sir," he said. "And Louis and Kinch and Carter. I trust all me mates with me life."

"Good. Because then everything is going to be OK," Hogan said. He wasn't sure what made him cast aside fifteen years of officer training, but he stood, leaned over, and placed a kiss on Peter's forehead. "I promise," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red Cross invalid packages contained supplementary food for sick prisoners. Typical ingredients of a British parcel included:  
> 2 tins Yeatex  
> 3 tins concentrated soup powder  
> 1 tin gooseberries  
> 1 tin Horlicks  
> 1 tin Ovaltine  
> 1 tin milk powder  
> 2 tins dried eggs  
> 1 block of chocolate  
> 1 tin cheese  
> 1 tin condensed milk  
> 2 tins compressed oats  
> 4 ounces (110 g) tea  
> 1 tin creamed rice  
> 1 tin Rowntree's cocoa  
> 1 tin lemon curd


	16. Perdu dans ses pensées

The Colonel wanted to talk, and Peter didn’t. He couldn’t, because he wasn’t sure he could explain any of it and anyway, his head hurt. So he closed his eyes to think. He laid still and tried to look like he was asleep, and wished Louis was there, because Louis would understand.

Wouldn’t he?

No, Peter realized. He wouldn’t. Louis understood almost everything about Peter, but he would never comprehend that Peter wasn’t interested in food, and that was that. Peter let out a sigh, which prompted Colonel Hogan to pat his shoulder gently.

Peter went on thinking. Louis worshipped food more than most people, but everyone else seemed to enjoy meals. Peter just didn’t. Everyone else could sit and eat and chat and laugh during meals. Everyone else seemed to know the right things to say. The words “it’s delicious,” or “compliments to the chef” never occurred to Peter because when he looked at a plate of a food, he generally had only one thought.

He was trying not to panic.

Oh, sometimes it was fine. Familiar food prepared in a familiar way was comforting. Sometimes he could ignore the fears running through his mind and just chew and swallow and try not to think about it.

But sometimes—and definitely lately—questions were swarming through his mind. Had he eaten this before? Would it taste the same? What about the texture? Would it be hard to chew? If it was slimy, he couldn’t eat it, and if it was tough, that was hopeless too. Would he choke on it if he tried to swallow? What color was it? What was in it? Why was it mixed together?

And why was everyone looking at him?

He knew one sure way to stop it, to get everyone’s eyes off him. He would put down his fork and light a cigarette and mutter something about the awful things the French could do to a perfectly good fill-in-the-blank. Then Louis would snort and say “You English have no taste.” Then Peter would puff out a smoke ring, and Louis would say, “Don’t smoke where we’re eating,” and hey, presto, Peter had his excuse to leave the table.

Up on his bunk, he could dream about the food he liked. His mum’s bread pudding, for one thing. He just about, almost, nearly remembered eating it. Mostly he remembered sitting on her lap as she spooned in a mouthful of soft, warm sweetness and gazed at him with affection. He remembered feeling perfectly safe because Mummy was holding him and giving him the most delicious food he’d ever had. How old was he then? Five? Four? Younger?

It wasn’t exactly that he didn’t like food, and he knew he needed to eat. It was just that almost everything associated with food made his heart ache. He just didn’t want to talk about and think about it. He wanted it to be easy and predictable.

Eating was so easy for everyone else, just like talking was. And it really wasn’t fair. Because sometimes he _was_ hungry and when he was, he just wanted what he wanted: Tea and toast and a cigarette and a quiet space to enjoy them.

Trying to eat and not being able to do it reminded him of all the times he had failed, and how it had felt.

It felt awful. It felt stupid. No, _he_ felt stupid.

And small. It made him feel small.

He could remember being hauled up by the collar, shaken hard, yelled at and deposited on a hard chair in the corner. He could feel a sharp smack on cold, bare legs, smarting as he walked to school. He could remember wanting to yell and kick and fight back, and not daring to do any of that. And he remembered losing control. Crying and… And the other thing. Once that happened, the yelling and smacking and humiliation would start all over again and he knew that everything he did was wrong. _He_ was wrong. Wet, too, and very wrong.

A voice intruded on his thoughts. “Is he sleeping, Colonel?”

“He’s dozing. He’s been doing it all morning. What’s happening, Kinch?”

“We got word about Operation Raven Sword, Sir,” Kinch said softly. “All systems are go for Friday night.”

“Three days,” Hogan said. “Alright. I wish we were at full strength.”

“Yes, Sir. We’ll manage, though, Colonel.” He was quiet for a moment. “How’s Newkirk doing?”

Peter could hear Hogan exhale a little impatiently. “He’s in and out,” he said. He felt a hand on his head, stroking his hair in a gentle way that left no doubt about Hogan's genuine concern for him, in case the kiss on his forehead hadn't been proof enough. He could relax a little, knowing the Colonel was watching over him. “I’m worried. I’d like him back with us.”

“In the barracks, Colonel?” Kinch asked. “It might be too soon.” Peter felt another hand touching his shoulder. “Damn, he got skinny fast this time.”

“Yes, he did. And no, I mean ‘back with us.’ Back to normal. Part of the team. Tough,” Hogan said. “I hate seeing him like this.” The words made Peter’s headache throb worse, but he could tell Hogan wasn’t angry. He was disappointed.

“You’ll see a big change in him once he puts some weight on, Colonel, I promise,” Kinch said. “I’ve seen him slip like this before, but Pete’s a fighter. He always bounces back.”

The vote of confidence would have been satisfying if Peter hadn’t felt like a fraud, hiding in plain sight by pretending to sleep. _Worthless as ever_ , he thought. _You’re letting everyone down again_.

He couldn’t do that to his mates. So he let his eyes flutter open.

“Hey, buddy,” Kinch said. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too, Kinch,” Peter said sleepily. “What brings you here?”

“Just keeping the Colonel up to date and checking in on you,” Kinch said with a smile. “You need anything?”

“My smokes,” Peter said. He was craving a cigarette. It might help with his headache.

“Sorry,” Hogan said gently, laying a hand on Peter’s head again. “Wilson says there’s no smoking in the infirmary.”

Peter groaned, but he sat up. He was feeling jittery, nauseated and irritated, but he didn’t want to look weak.

“I’d really like a fag,” he persisted.

“It’s been four days,” Hogan said with a glint in his eye. “I thought maybe you had quit.”

“Not bloody likely,” Peter grumbled. “When can I get out of here, Sir?”

Almost on cue, Wilson poked his head in through the curtain. “If you get on a scale today, and if you can walk without support, and if you promise to eat once you’re back in the barracks, I can release you tomorrow,” he said. “You are doing better.”

“That’s alright then,” Peter said. Then he returned to his question: “But can’t I have a smoke now?”

Wilson looked him over, then nodded. “Yeah. Kinch, can you take him outside? We’ve got a wheelchair free, and the fresh air will do him some good anyway.” He wasn’t wild about men smoking inside the ward, but he knew there was comfort and cheer in a few minutes’ relaxation with a good cigarette. “You can have fifteen minutes, but you need to be back in here for lunch,” he informed Peter in no uncertain terms.

Hogan and Kinch got Peter settled in the wheelchair, and Hogan was about to follow Kinch outside when Wilson tapped his arm and pulled him aside.

“We can let him out so he can sleep in his own bunk, Sir,” he told Colonel Hogan. “But I want him reporting in here for his meals for the next week. And he’s got to start talking or this is going to just keep happening. And if he drops an ounce of weight, he’ll be back in bed so fast his head will spin.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Wilson,” Hogan said. “Let’s make sure you tell him.” Hogan stopped for a moment to think. "There's another conversation we need to have before he can move back in, Doc," he said, a serious look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The headache, irritability and depression that Peter is experiencing are all side effects of giving up smoking. He hasn't smoked in four days. Also, when Wilson says, “He knew there was comfort and cheer in a few minutes’ relaxation…” -- These words come straight from a Camel cigarette ad from a 1945 magazine that featured an Army medic!


	17. Comme le lait maternel

Baker was manning the radio, so Kinch had time to stay and help Hogan coax Peter through his lunch. LeBeau had asked him to help, knowing the Colonel would have his hands full with the awkward task. He had also warned Kinch about what to expect, but Kinch still was surprised by what he saw.

The mere sight of an American-style grilled cheese sandwich, a cup of tomato soup, a cup of applesauce, and a glass of milk had the normally confident English corporal overwhelmed. Peter had a million questions: What sort of cheese is it? What else is in the sandwich? Why is the bread that color? Is it going to be crunchy? Do I have to eat the crusts? Is the soup thick or thin? How thick? Why is there milk? I hate milk.

And why is there so much food?

Kinch knew the answer to that; Wilson had stopped by to say that Newkirk needed 700 calories for lunch, and this meal would deliver it. It wasn’t just all the questions that concerned Kinch, though. It was the look on Peter’s face, a look he’d never seen before. He looked apprehensive as he poked at the food on the plate, as if it might jab back. He looked at the food as if it was dangerous.

What’s he thinking? Kinch wondered as he looked first at the soup and sandwich, and then back to Peter’s wary eyes. Frankly, he couldn’t help but feel a little envious; the meal looked fresh and tasty. They didn’t get food like this in the regular mess hall. Even though LeBeau was a miracle worker, there were limits to what he could do with the available ingredients. Clearly the ingredients provided for the camp’s invalids—particularly this one—were a cut above what they’d all grown used to. Kinch knew that Hogan had pulled every string with Klink, and had probably filled him with fears of endless paperwork and an inevitable Red Cross investigation if a man starved to death on his watch.

Then, as he watched Peter pry apart the edges of the sandwich to investigate it, Kinch realized what he was worried about.

Several months earlier, LeBeau had obtained the ingredients to make _Croque Monsieurs_ for everyone. Peter’s fussiness about food waxed and waned, and at that time he was more adventurous than usual. LeBeau had convinced him that the sandwich would taste like Welsh rarebit, which Peter professed to like, only it would have a little bit of ham added. Peter was willing to try it, provided LeBeau promised not to smother it in béchamel sauce. Agreed. But he only took two bites before his palate encountered a glob of Dijon mustard, and that was that. It was Peter’s last encounter with any sort of grilled sandwich.

“You know, Pete, I think this was my favorite lunch when I when I was a kid in school,” he said, carving off an end of the sandwich and handing it to Peter.

“Then you eat it,” Peter said petulantly.

“You’re lucky I haven’t eaten it already, pal, because it looks delcicious,” Kinch said. “See, it’s not like that _Croque Monsieur_ that LeBeau makes. It’s much simpler. Just bread and cheese and butter.”

“No mustard?” Peter asked.

“Definitely not,” Kinch said. “And no ham, and no sauce, obviously.”

“Obviously. Are you sure about the mustard?” Peter was looking skeptically at the small slice of the sandwich in his hand.

“Absolutely. This is the classic way to make grilled cheese—bread, cheese, butter. That’s it. It reminds me of going back to school every September. You know how the first days of fall…”

“Autumn,” Peter corrected him as he tentatively bit what Kinch had handed him.

“… the first days of autumn. You start to feel that chill in the air, you know? A little breeze comes up behind you and you’re glad you’re wearing corduroy knickers…”

“Knickers?” Peter said, looking scandalized, as Kinch cut off another bit of the sandwich and handed it over.

“He means trousers that gather at the knee, like kids wear. Knickerbockers,” Hogan said, stifling a laugh. “Knickers has a slightly different meaning to the British, Kinch.” Hogan was standing at the bedside, stretching his back, and watching how Kinch handled the meal. He welcomed the help, knowing now that it would take all of them to get Newkirk eating steadily, and he was impressed. Kinch was smooth in his dealings with Newkirk.

Kinch laughed at that. “Right, I’d kind of forgotten. Anyway, you’d be glad you were wearing corduroy britches with socks that covered your whole leg.”

“…Shorts. We always wore woolen shorts. No corduroy,” Peter said, cautiously taking a little bite.

“You wouldn’t wear shorts in the fall and winter,” Kinch said skeptically.

“Yes we did, all the t-time,” Peter said with a serious expression. “We wore them with knee socks in the autumn and winter, and with short socks the rest of the time. I didn’t get long trousers until I was th-th-thirteen, and I never had kn-n-n.... what you said.”

“Shorts, in that weather? You British are crazy, and you’re ruining my story,” Kinch said. But despite the interruptions, the tale was having the effect of relaxing Peter, lulling him into an easy conversation and giving him something to focus on other than the act of eating, and Kinch knew it. So he went on, trying to weave a spell from happy memories.

“Anyway, we’d get in the house, and the kitchen was warm and cozy and we’d smell soup on the stove and hear the sandwiches sizzling in a pan. _Ssssss_ – just like that. And we’d take off our jackets and hang them over the backs of our chairs, and warm up our hands by the pot-belly stove, and then my older brother, Billy, he was bossy, so he’d make us wash our hands. Then we’d all sit down at the table with Mama and see what she made for us. And whenever it was tomato soup and grilled cheese, I was ready to jump out of my skin.”

“You liked it?” Peter asked, accepting another piece from Kinch. This one was bigger, about a quarter of the sandwich.

“Oh, yeah. Everyone loved it. I’d bite along the edges of the bread first, because it was all buttery from the frying pan and it tasted the best. And then I’d take a sip of the soup,” he said, holding out a spoonful, which Peter readily accepted, “and then another bite of the sandwich. But you know what the best part was?” He watched as Peter bit the buttery crusts off.

“No, what?”

“Just being at home with my Mama and my brothers. She’d ask us how school was going and what we’d done that morning, and we’d tell her about Columbus’s voyages, or polygons, or adjectives and adverbs. She’d listen to every one of us talk, and then we’d ask her what funny things the baby had done—that’d be my little sister Alicia, who was usually taking a nap when we got home—and we’d just go back to school feeling happy, you know? Because we were all together for a little part of the school day.”

“It was g-good like that when my Mum was home with us too,” Peter said, accepting more soup from Kinch. “She took really good care of us for as lllong as she could. Only I was the, the, the littlest brother. I wasn’t in school yet, but I remember them coming home.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet your Mama took good care of you. And I’ll bet she was a good cook,” Kinch said. He handed him a wedge of the sandwich, and gestured for him to dip it in the soup. Peter did, and then he smiled as he added his own memories to the fire Kinch had lit.

“She was. I w-w-would sit on her lap and have bread pudding. I remember it was sweet and soft and warm, and it would melt in my mouth,” Peter said, dunking another bit of his sandwich in the soup and closing his eyes as it began to dissolve on his tongue.

After a long moment, he continued. “I felt safe when she fed me. And she didn’t ffffuss at us to eat ffffaster or clean our plates and she never sm-sm-sm-sm…” Peter dropped his head, knowing the word “smack” evoked too many harsh memories to come out of his mouth easily. “Wwwwell, she never hit us. Not once.” He studied his hands and started blinking rapidly.

Hogan, seeing the sudden blinks, laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You OK?” he asked. He tipped his chin up to get a look at his face.

Peter held Hogan’s gaze for just a moment, then looked down again. “I j-j-j-just miss my Mum when I think about her,” he said. He bit hard on his bottom lip and pressed fingernails into the palms of his hands. That usually helped him slow down any tics.

“You’re almost done with your sandwich. How about you take another bite, Pete,” Kinch said gently.

Peter nodded. “Tell me about your Mum,” he said. And he listened quietly and ate steadily while Kinch, and then Colonel Hogan, shared boyhood memories of their mothers. Wilson, who had been listening for several minutes outside the curtain surrounding Peter's bed, smiled and moved on. His patient was talking; this was a good sign.

It took 45 minutes to polish off the sandwich and soup, and another 10 to demolish the applesauce. That left the milk, and Peter’s answer to that was a firm “no.” He didn’t like it; he wasn’t drinking it; and he was getting agitated just thinking about it.

He sat with his arms crossed, unwilling to touch the cup, unwilling to separate his lips for even a sip of it, pulling his head away, until Mallory stopped in and saw what was happening. He took the milk away and when he brought it back, it was brown. The latest British Red Cross invalid parcels had included an abundant supply of something called Ovaltine, which apparently the British prisoners liked. Peter’s eyes lit up when he saw it, and he sipped at it willingly until it was all gone.

An hour and twenty minutes after it started, the long ordeal of lunch was finally over, and once again, Peter drifted off the sleep, worn out from the struggle with food. Once he was breathing deeply, Hogan and Kinch got up from his bedside and huddled nearby.

“Thanks for doing that, Kinch. That was progress. He was eating and holding up his end of a conversation. He hasn’t been able to do that for a while. Distracting him seems to help a lot,” Hogan said.

“Louis told me it would. I didn’t believe him when he told me I’d probably end up spoon-feeding him, though,” Kinch replied, looking serious.

“Yep. The name of the game is getting all the food into him, even if he needs help,” Hogan said. “Wilson says he can return to the barracks tomorrow, and I want him back there, but…”

“… It’s an ordeal,” Kinch said, filling in the blank.

“Yes. And the other guys…”

“… They’re going to eat him alive if they notice any signs of weakness,” Kinch said.

“Exactly. Wilson wants him to come here for regular meals and just sleep and have a few supplementary meals in the barracks.”

“Snacks, huh?” Kinch said. “LeBeau told me he needs two or three a day. Well, that doesn’t sound too bad, Sir. We can take turns getting him here for meals and I’m sure Louis can get him to eat a little something without too much fuss. If we can just tamp down the jealousy..."

“I’ve got to get the other men off his back, or we’ll be right back where we started,” Hogan said. “I think I know what to do. Can you stick around here a little longer? I’ll send a replacement as soon as I can.”

“You got it, Colonel,” Kinch said. He leaned back in the chair as he watched Hogan leave, then stood and reached over to snug the blankets around Peter. It was easy to forget how young he really was, or how young so many of the men were. He smiled with relief at the sight of Peter sleeping so contentedly. Every man here was some mother’s son and lately Peter had reminded him of a lost kid who needed his Mama. Well, there were no mothers in a POW camp, so Peter was going to have to settle for a bunch of big brothers. This big brother was not going to let Peter slip away without one hell of a fight, and he knew he wasn’t alone.


	18. Physiologie du goût

LeBeau and Carter were seated at the table quietly talking when Colonel Hogan entered the barracks. LeBeau needed a shave and there were dark circles under his usually bright eyes, but as he nursed a cup of coffee, he looked far better than he had five hours earlier when Hogan had to practically carry him back to his bunk.

“LeBeau! It’s good to see you awake. You look like you got a little rest,” Hogan said as he stepped over the threshold.

The Frenchman nodded in appreciation but he wasn’t concerned for himself. “How is Pierre, _mon Colonel_?” he asked.

Hogan poured himself a mug of coffee and slid in at the table with his men. “He’s sleeping again. He just finished lunch.”

Carter checked his watch. “It’s 2:40, Sir,” he said, squinting one eye.

“It takes time, André,” LeBeau said wearily. “Every meal is a chore for him.”

“Boy, I really wish I could see him,” Carter said. “I know LeBeau’s pretty much the expert, but maybe I could help a little so that he would enjoy a meal. Just having a friend by your side when you’re doing something hard can make a difference.” He wasn’t complaining, because he was Carter. He just missed his buddy and wanted to help.

“That’s about to happen,” Hogan said with a smile. “I’d like you to go over and tag-team with Kinch in about an hour. They’ll be trying to get a snack into Peter, and he’ll need some coaxing. Kinch will show you how to handle it, and then you can take over for dinner.”

Carter beamed, but LeBeau looked crestfallen. “But _mon Colonel_ , Pierre will be looking for _me_.”

“You can round up his dinner from the Sergeant’s mess and bring it to him, Louis. And you can supervise Carter while he gets Peter through the meal, OK? We’re all going to need to learn your techniques if we’re going to get him back here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” LeBeau brightened at that. “Ah, finally. I can take much better care of him here. ”

“He’ll have to take his meals in the infirmary. Wilson is insisting on that, because they need to keep track,” Hogan said. “He’ll be here for snacks and sleeping and company. And we need to get him stronger. Carter, you can help with getting him to exercise.”

“You got it, boy,” Carter said. “I mean, Sir.”

Hogan looked around the room. Other men were loafing on their bunks, playing cards, talking quietly. Garlotti and Olsen were tossing a baseball back and forth, making a pleasing _thwack_ sound as it passed from mitt to mitt. They seemed to be listening, but no one else was. Hogan called them over.

“I’m about to talk to the whole barracks about Peter, and I need your 100 percent support,” he told them.

“Yes, Sir,” they said in unison. Olsen and Garlotti were two men Hogan could count on in any situation.

Hogan got to his feet. “Alright, men, gather round and listen up. Newkirk’s coming back tomorrow, and I need to explain a few things to you.”

The men of Barracks 2 gathered in a tight knot around the table. Hogan didn’t address them like this every day, and everyone could see the lines of worry etched in his face.

“You’re all aware that Newkirk’s had a tough time with eating. He’s lost a lot of weight and it’s jeopardized his health. Luckily, Wilson has stabilized him and he’ll be back in the barracks tomorrow.”

Mills and Bartoli exchanged a smug look, but didn’t say anything. Still, it didn’t escape Hogan’s attention.

“I do my best to make sure there’s enough food to go around, and I know it can be hard to understand when you’re not getting as much as someone else is. I hope you all understand that the guys who are working all night, running through the woods or digging tunnels or doing whatever is asked of them need a little more fuel. And anyone who’s sick gets extra, too.”

“Everyone gets that, Sir,” Garlotti said. “You can’t go on mission after mission if you don’t have any energy.”

“Thanks, Garlotti. The thing is, eating is harder for some people than it is for others.” A murmur rose up in the barracks. “No, no, hear me out. It is harder. It’s much harder for Newkirk.”

“He’s like a spoiled kid,” Mills muttered.

“I heard that, Mills, and I understand how you might feel that way. But it’s not that. He gets tied up in knots about eating. You know how it’s hard for him when everyone notices his stutter? It’s the same with food. It’s hard sometimes for him to eat properly, but it’s not something he’s doing on purpose.”

A few men scoffed at that. Hogan had to hold back his temper and remind himself that the men were only seeing part of what was happening. “Look, we all lived through the Depression. Most of us know what it’s like to have to do without sometimes.”

The men were nodding in agreement. No one had been untouched by the early 1930s.

“Newkirk’s family was poor even before the Depression hit,” Hogan said. He gestured toward LeBeau. “We think he went through times when there was never enough food. Now he’s in a camp where everyone is obsessed with getting enough to eat, and it seems to trigger a lot of worries in him.”

“He feels guilty for eating at all,” LeBeau said. “So he stops. I try to get him to eat, and he tries not to take too much. It is I who is telling him he has to have more. I’m the one trying to find something to tempt him with. If you want to blame anyone, blame me.”

“Why are you so concerned about filling him up? You don’t do that for the rest of us,” Mills said.

“I cook for everyone,” LeBeau said defiantly. “You’re getting more rations than men in other barracks, because Colonel Hogan makes sure we have extras. But…” He took a deep breath. “I’ve seen Pierre nearly dead. You have no idea what it was like here in 1940 and 1941, but I assure you it was not like it is today. Food was scarce, the guards were cruel, and disease was rampant. He looks almost as bad now as he did three years ago.”

The men hung their heads. LeBeau was right, and they knew it. Between Colonel Hogan and Colonel Klink, the camp was run humanely. Hogan did everything he could to get as much food as possible for his men; Klink had many shortcomings, but a cruel streak was not one of them. He genuinely tried. And despite it, Newkirk was way too thin.

“There’s something I don’t get, LeBeau. Isn’t he hungry?” Garlotti asked. “Because anyone would be hungry if he didn’t eat.”

“He _is_ hungry, Tony,” LeBeau asserted. “He _wants_ to eat. But sometimes the food won’t go down or stay down, and we don’t really know why. It's not something he can snap his fingers and control. I’m trying to train his palate to accept more food. But when his body says no to something that’s on his plate, eating becomes harder for him. For Pierre, eating is sometimes a brick wall that he can't get past." LeBeau was struggling to explain.

“Actually, it’s a rock wall,” Carter said, suddenly understanding. He looked earnestly at LeBeau. “He knows how to climb a brick wall, because he sees how it’s put together. It’s familiar. There’s a pattern. He knows where his feet and hands should go.”

LeBeau nodded in agreement. Everyone else looked at Carter, wondering where he was heading with this.

“Keep going, Carter,” Hogan said.

“A rock wall isn’t tidy or predictable like a brick wall is,” Carter said. “Maybe there’s water seeping through it, or dirt and moss and little plants poking out. You stick your foot in a crevice and you’re not sure if it’s going to hold. The rocks can be razor sharp and cut your fingers if you slip. You spend the whole time when you’re climbing up wondering what’s going to happen if you get stuck halfway there.”

Carter pursed his lips, then continued: “Stuff that’s unpredictable is hard for some people. Peter’s tough, though. He sees that everyone who’s ever climbed this rock wall keeps talking about how satisfying it is. So sure, he wants to climb it too. But he looks at it and he wishes it was simple, with bricks here, and mortar here. But instead it’s complicated and mixed up in a way that doesn’t look he expects a wall to look.’ Carter shrugged.

Most of the men went silent, mulling over Carter’s explanation, when he added, “We’re his friends, so we have to guide him until he knows he can climb the wall himself. Right, Sir?”

Hogan beamed at Carter, thankful for his unswerving devotion to Peter and all his friends. “That’s exactly right, Carter.”

Then Addison spoke up.

“That’s an interesting metaphor, Sarge, but why doesn’t he know how to climb that wall if we already do?” He sounded serious and genuinely curious for once.

Colonel Hogan answered for Carter: “Maybe nobody showed him how.” He paced for a moment as he formed his response. Then he stopped in front of Addison and asked, “Do you like broccoli, Soldier? Asparagus? Lettuce?” Fortunately, he knew the answer before he asked the question. Addison had taken a keen interest in LeBeau’s vegetable patch.

“I love vegetables, Sir,” Addison said. “That’s one of the things I miss the most about being home. Even when we do get enough food around here, it’s never the good stuff.”

“Did you like vegetables when you were young?” Hogan continued.

“No, Sir, Colonel,” Addison laughed. “I hated everything green. Peas, broccoli, string beans, you name it.”

“How did you learn to like them?” Hogan asked.

Addison frowned and shrugged. “Gradually, I guess.”

Now LeBeau was on his feet, facing Addison. “I can tell you exactly how,” he said. “Every few days, your _Maman_ put broccoli on your plate and said ‘Try some.’ You probably tasted it and made a face. But she did it again and again and gave you new ways to like it. Maybe one time she sprinkled it with parmesan cheese, and you liked it more. Or maybe your Grand-mère had a special way of sautéeing it with salt and butter and you loved it. Eventually you stopped resisting and started requesting it.”

“Or she didn’t call it broccoli,” Carter said. “She called it ‘little trees,’ and let you help her cut them up, and that made you want to try it.” A few men laughed, but Carter shrugged. “Hey, don’t knock it. It worked for me!”

“ _Orecchiette con rapini e salsiccia_ ,” Garlotti said in a low, yearning voice. “A little onion, a little garlic, some _briciole di pane_ … My God, I need a cigarette,” he said, lighting up.

“Hand one over,” LeBeau said. Despite differences anyone would expect between a Frenchman and an Italian-American, LeBeau knew there was more to Garlotti than pizza. They shared a passion for good cooking.

LeBeau continued his line of thought. “My point is, nobody ever made it easy for Pierre. He didn’t have the chance to learn little by little to like many different foods. He sticks to what is safe and familiar, and in a POW camp, that isn’t much.”

“I think I get what you’re telling us, LeBeau,” Mills said. “But can you try to get him to stop wasting food?”

“That’s what really bugs us,” Davis said.

LeBeau looked over at Colonel Hogan, who nodded, giving him permission to reply.

“Mills, I know it seems like he’s wasting food. But I promise you, anything he doesn’t eat gets consumed. It goes back into the pot…”

“So we get his leftovers,” Mill said sarcastically.

“His rejects,” Davis added, sounded even more annoyed.

“No,” LeBeau said. Then he hung his head. “Alright, sometimes, yes, you do. But do you know what he gets? He gets a scrap of day-old bread I grabbed off a plate when I was clearing up in the Sergeant’s mess. He gets a bit of cheese that I’ve sliced mold off. He gets biscuits that took eight weeks to arrive from England and are broken to bits. He’s not proud. He’s just …”

“Fussy,” Mills said.

“Hungry,” LeBeau replied angrily. “He’s hungry. And he’s embarrassed. He knows everyone notices that he’s not eating, and it makes him feel guilty and mortified that can’t eat everything. He feels your anger. He’s not stupid. He complains so he doesn’t _have_ to eat, so that you can have the food instead of him. He will settle for the few things he knows he can eat. But we can’t let him live on cigarettes and tea anymore, or it’s going to kill him. ”

“I didn’t know how you were getting extras for him,” Davis said quietly.

“Me either,” Mills added.

“You never asked,” LeBeau said. “You assumed I was saving the best of everything for him. That’s not true.” He stood still, looking exhausted and shaking a little. Hogan draped an arm over his shoulder and pulled him closer.

Hogan spoke softly, though he was still addressing the room. “When Newkirk starts to have trouble eating, you’ll notice because he stops talking during meals. He focuses a lot more on what’s on his plate. He pokes at the food instead of eating it. And the minute we start to make a big deal of all of that things go downhill.”

He gave LeBeau a tug closer to him. “LeBeau is in charge of monitoring his eating, and I’m responsible for keeping Newkirk healthy. If you see Newkirk getting extra portions or going into my office to eat, all you need to know is that we’re working to help him gain weight. All I ask is that you stop talking to him about what he’s eating or not eating, or how he’s behaving around food. Because feeling like he's being lectured or gossiped about will make a hard job harder.”

The men nodded. “And if any of you are desperately hungry, or so sick or worried that you just can’t eat, you need to tell me that, alright? I will keep working to get extra food for everyone in camp. And I promise you, I’ll never let any of you wither away. If what’s happening with Peter happened to any of you, we would do everything possible to make sure you started eating again.”

Everyone looked at Colonel Hogan solemnly. Carter stood, hands on hips, defying anyone to argue against his friend getting what he needed. LeBeau stood under Hogan’s wing, looking both exhausted and furious.

“He looks like a bag of bones, and we can’t have that,” Olsen said. “I wonder if he likes fudge. My mom sent me a batch.”

“You’ve been holding out on us,” Bartoli said in amazement.

Carter and Garlotti exchanged a grin. Actually, he hadn’t. Not on everyone.

“He likes everything chocolate,” LeBeau said warmly. “As long as it has no nuts and no raisins and …”

“My mom would love him,” Olsen said. “She makes her fudge plain. It’s the best kind.”

“Thanks, fellas. He’s going to be back here tomorrow, but he’ll be having his regular meals in the infirmary. He’ll need to have some snacks to fatten him up, and he’ll eat those here. It’s really important that you just back off and let LeBeau be in charge of that, OK? He’ll let you know when he needs help,” he said with a nod toward Carter, “and he’ll let you know when he needs privacy. No one wants to have their personal issues dissected in front of an audience,” he added with a stern look at Mills and Addison. “The goal is to get Peter to gain some weight every week.”

Heads nodded in agreement. “Thanks for explaining it, Colonel,” Davis said. “It sounds … well, real hard. I like to eat. I can’t imagine having trouble getting the food down. Even the slop they give us in the mess hall.”

“Keeping it down, that’s another story,” Olsen put in. Everyone laughed in agreement.

Hogan looked around the room and reminded himself that he was lucky to have a great team. Sure, they were all different and they squabbled sometimes. But when there was trouble, he could count on them to pull together. And it was time to pull together for Peter.

“OK, guys, see me if you have questions. Dismissed,” Hogan said. “LeBeau, come with me,” he added as he headed for his office. He held the door open for the Frenchman and followed him in, then closed it carefully behind him.

“I shouldn’t have been so angry,” LeBeau started, scraping a hand over his unshaved chin. “I shouldn’t have accused them of making assumptions. I shouldn’t…”

“LeBeau, be quiet, and come here.” He wrapped the man in a bear hug and squeezed until he felt a sturdy pair of shoulders start to shake. Hogan clutched him tighter and rubbed his back as LeBeau let out days of exhaustion and weeks of anxiety over what was happening to his best friend in Stalag XIII.

“I’m sorry, _mon Colonel_. This is overwhelming,” LeBeau finally said, pulling back and accepting Hogan’s offer of a handkerchief. “Why does Pierre have to be some damned complicated?” He stood there, looking up with big eyes and damp cheeks, as if he believed Colonel Hogan might hold the answer.

“The good ones often are, LeBeau,” Hogan said, pressing a hand firmly on his shoulder. “The same things that scare him make him strong—much stronger than most of those guys could possibly know,” Hogan said. “It’s not going to be easy, but you know and I know that he’s worth the trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of the discussion of vegetables, Garlotti starts thinking about an Italian dish of "ear-shaped" pasta, broccoli rabe, and sausage, with bread crumbs on tops. Like LeBeau, Garlotti has a relationship with certain foods that borders on sensual. No wonder they needed a smoke.


	19. Rêves de confiture de fraises

Kinch checked his watch; it was half past three, and Peter was still snoozing. He stood up to stretch, then stepped outside the white curtain surrounding Peter’s hospital bed and into the sick ward. Several beds down, he could see Wilson checking a patient’s bandages. Their eyes met briefly and Wilson gave a brisk nod. Kinch knew he’d be along to see Peter shortly.

Five minutes later, Wilson came striding over and spoke quietly with Kinch.

“Still napping?” Wilson asked, poking his head inside the curtain to confirm his suspicions.

“Yeah, he’s barely stirred. You really think he can be released tomorrow, Joe?”

“He can sleep in the barracks just as easily as he sleeps here,” Wilson said.

“He’s so tired, though. If he’s eating better, shouldn’t that perk him up?” Kinch asked.

“It will. It just takes time,” Wilson said. He saw a look of worry on Kinch’s face, so he explained. “Exhaustion is a side effect of starvation, Kinch.”

“Starvation?” Kinch nearly fell backwards in shock. He knew Peter wasn’t eating well, but that was a harsh word for it. He had thought the word, of course, but he meant it figuratively, and this was a medic speaking.

“That’s what we’re looking at,” Wilson said. “There’s a lot of physical damage that comes from malnourishment or nutritional deprivation, and repairing it is hard work for the human body. If he conks out right after a meal or a snack, that’s because his body is trying to heal. Fatigue is typical in these cases.”

“You’ve seen cases like this before?” Kinch said with interest.

“Not exactly like this,” Wilson admitted. “I saw plenty of malnutrition in the poor neighborhoods of Philadelphia when I worked at the children’s hospital. Failure to thrive and rickets are pretty common when there’s not enough money to feed the family,” he said. “And in the behavioral clinic, I treated a few young girls—from middle-class families, by the way—who stopped eating and became emaciated.”

“Were they sick?” Kinch asked. “Is that what’s going on here with Pete?”

“No, they weren’t physically sick, at least not at first, and neither is he. What I saw with those girls is a very rare condition called anorexia hysterica or anorexia nervosa. It mostly affects young women, and they gradually start restricting their food intake until they are eating very few foods. It’s not what Newkirk has; his body just doesn’t seem to be able to accept certain foods. I think he’s recalling some old traumas when his eating slows down like this.”

“So it’s in his head, like the other guys are saying,” Kinch said sadly.

Wilson looked at him pensively. “Not exactly. Trauma is real, Kinch. Bad associations that stem from trauma can be logical. If a cat sits on a hot stove, it’ll avoid that stove in the future whether it’s hot or not. When bad things happen to us and we don’t have a healthy way to deal with them, we get stuck in an unhealthy response. That’s what I think this is.”

“So you think we can make it better?” Kinch asked.

“I’m optimistic,” Wilson said. “Newkirk’s worried about what’s happening to him, and he trusts LeBeau to guide him to eat. If you guys can follow LeBeau’s lead, Newkirk should improve. He already seems to be relaxing a bit. He was able to carry on a conversation while he was eating today. I don’t think that’s happened in a while.”

As they spoke, Peter began to stir. “Kinch, you’re still here,” he said in a low voice as he stretched. “Oh, Wilson. What’s going on?” He sat up.

“Just checking on you, pal,” Wilson said. He pulled out his stethoscope to check on Newkirk’s heart and lungs. Then he moved it down to Peter’s stomach and listened there. “Everything is just as it should be,” he said with a reassuring smile. “You’re due for snack soon…”

“Not again…” Peter groaned.

“Yes, again. Get used to it. But before you eat anything else, I want you out of bed and walking. Kinch?”

“Yep, I can help him. Come on, Pete, let’s race,” he said as helped Peter swing his legs over the side of the bed. Wilson smiled, patted Kinch on the shoulder, and headed to his next patient.

“Bloody charming,” Peter said, but he was smiling a little as he said it. He wobbled slightly as Kinch pulled him to stand, then took a few tentative steps in his bare feet. That was when Mallory popped his head in.

“No bare feet in the infirmary. You need slippers,” he said, presenting Peter with a pair of scuffed but serviceable leather slippers. He set them on the floor and helped Peter slide his feet into them.

“Slippers. Blimey, I ffffeel like the Duke of Wwwindsor,” Peter said. “If my ol’ mum could see me now.”

“I think the Duke might want something a little fancier than these old things,” Kinch joked.

“Oh, really?” Peter replied quite seriously. He looked down. “I never had such a thing as these. Shoes that you only wwwwear inside? Blimey, I ffff, fffelt lucky to have shoes that I wore outside!”

Kinch didn’t know what to say to that. He decided that a direct question would be best.

“Were there times you didn’t have shoes, Pete?”

“Of course,” Peter said, taking a step across the floor as Kinch supported him with a hand on his back. “Summers mostly.” He looked like he might say something else, but his eyes met Kinch’s and he promptly clammed up. His pursed lips signaled his determination as he concentrated on walking for the first time in four days, but they also communicated a clear message: Topic closed.

Kinch tucked the information away, another snippet that was forming a mosaic in his mind of a deprived childhood. Kinch’s own family didn’t have much in the way of material possessions, but his father worked and he always had shoes on his feet, clothes on his back, a roof over his head, and food in his belly. It was clear the same wasn’t always true for Peter, but that thought didn’t fill Kinch with pity. It made him marvel at the resilience that now had Peter taking longer steps and pulling away from Kinch’s hand.

Pure pluck was on display when Carter came ambling up through the infirmary, a broad smile on his face. His appearance made Peter shake off all support and stand up tall.

“Andrew! Come in search of clean sheets and soft pillows, have you?” Peter called out. He was boisterous enough that Mallory had to shush him.

“You’re up! That’s great, pal. Gee, I wasn’t sure what kind of condition I was going to find you in here,” Carter said cheerfully.

“Nah, I’m all right. J-j-just bored with all this loafing about,” Peter replied. “And they’re stuffing me like a Christmas goose.”

As if on cue, Mallory’s sidekick, Private Ripley, had arrived with a tray of food. “Get back to your bed, Newkirk, this is yours.” Peter made a woeful face, but he followed along. As he settled in, Ripley took the cover off the tray.

Kinch and Carter inhaled a sweet aroma and tried not to drool. It was a plate of Pfannkuchen, as the Germans called them, thicker than LeBeau’s crêpes but thinner than mom’s pancakes. There were two, rolled up and stuffed with something, and dusted with sugar. Alongside the Pfannkuchen was a cup of hot chocolate to wash them down with.

“Are those crêpes? Louis d-d-doesn’t roll them like that,” Peter said, studying them from afar. “Ww-wwhat’s in them, anyway?”

“Strawberry jam,” Ripley said. He tried not to smile, but he couldn’t help himself as Peter’s skeptical look turned to interest. LeBeau had informed the medical team that Peter loved strawberry jam.

“Oh,” Peter said, picking up his fork to poke at the food. He untangled the rolled up edge of one pancake, using the tines like they were surgical instruments. “It does look like strawberry,” he said softly, laying the fork down carefully and crossing his hands over his chest anxiously. “There’s nothing else? It’s not mixed with honey or anything?”

“No, it’s just strawberry jam,” Ripley said.

“Are there any lumpy bits, Ripley?”

“LeBeau instructed the cook to purée it, so it’s very smooth,” Ripley said. “The pancakes are nice and warm now. This would be a good time to eat them,” he said as he exited the curtain.

Peter sat in bed, his eyes probing the food skeptically, then flicking back up to look at Carter and Kinch, who had taken seats on either side of him. He reached for the fork, then pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned and bit his lip.

“Go ahead and pick up the fork, Pete,” Kinch said. “Then cut off a little piece at the end.” Peter did as instructed, but nothing more. “Lift it up to your mouth, Peter, and take a bite.”

Carter watched carefully, taking mental notes as Kinch coached Peter through the meal. In a POW camp, where men usually scarfed down their food, Peter was eating slowly and meticulously. He seemed to need hints to keep going step by step. And before the snack was even half gone, he was grumbling that he was full and began looking for an escape. He handed the fork to Carter.

“Andrew, why don’t you have some? It’s very good,” Peter said warmly. “Try it.”

Carter was tempted. The Pfannkuchen looked and smelled very appetizing, and he hadn’t had a treat like that in some time. But he handed back the fork. “It’s not my food, Newkirk.”

“J-j-just have a bit. It’s too much for me,” Peter said, pushing the fork back. “We can share it.”

“I don’t think so, Pete,” Kinch said, taking up the fork. “Is it going to help you get out of here if you give your food away?”

Peter sighed and shook his head.

“No, it won’t help you at all. You’re starting to get enough calories to feel stronger. You just have to keep going,” Kinch said as he cut a little piece of the pancake and held it up. Peter started opening his mouth like a bird, but then snapped it shut, looking nervously at Carter.

Kinch could see at once at that he didn’t want Carter to see him looking weak. Peter took the fork and ate the rest of the food slowly, without bargaining or complaining.

It looked like a terrible chore, Carter thought as he watched. He had to bite his tongue to avoid saying what he was thinking, which was: “Boy, that looks good. Why aren’t you devouring it?” Instead, he observed as Kinch gently, gently encouraged Peter to keep taking tastes.

It took twenty minutes to polish off the snack, and Carter didn’t realize what an improvement that was. But Kinch did. He stood up and leaned in to talk to Peter.

“You did a great job, Pete. Do you mind if I tell Colonel Hogan and LeBeau how you finished everything on your own?”

Peter tried not to smile, but it wasn’t working. “You can tell them. And make sure LeBeau knows I’m coming back.”

“He’ll be here to see you later,” Carter piped in. "You can tell him yourself."

“Ah, that’s grand,” Peter said, clearly relieved to know that LeBeau was on his way. “You’re going, Kinch?” he asked.

“Yep. You OK with that?”

“Sure, thanks for coming, mate. Carter’s staying, right?” he asked.

“Yep,” Carter and Kinch said almost at the same time.

Peter watched as Kinch headed out, his eyes following him until he was completely out of sight. Then he tucked his arms back up again as if he was holding himself steady.

Change, even the smallest change, was hard for Peter, Carter thought as he watched. He needed to do something to calm him. "Here," he said, picking up the mug of hot chocolate. "Have a sip."

"Ta, mate," Newkirk said, accepting one sip from Carter before taking the mug in his hands to finish it off. He sat and listened quietly as Carter filled him in on the boring details of daily life that he had missed. "Then just as I was slapping on my shaving cream, Felix darted by and he took off across the room, looking like Santa Mouse," Carter was saying. Newkirk couldn't help laughing.

“So tell me,” Carter said, leaning forward as Peter polished off his hot chocolate. “Was the strawberry jam as good as it looked?”

Actually, it was, Peter thought as he leaned back into the pillows. “You don’t know what you’re missing, mate,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and dreamed of jam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea that Newkirk didn’t have shoes during summer as a child comes from Chapter 3 of my story “Behind the Rain,” which is a work in progress on FFnet. Anorexia nervosa was described in medical journals in detail by the 1870s and was first known as anorexia hysterica. It wasn’t until the 1960s that obsession with bodily appearance was considered one of the main features of anorexia.


	20. Le Gringalet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really short chapter, but I thought something was better than nothing.

Carter was a stranger to silence. He was bored as soon as Peter drifted off for another nap, so he got on his feet and went in search of Wilson.

He found him in his office, hunched over paperwork. Each LuftStalag regularly reported infirmary treatment and admission statistics to the Red Cross, and Wilson was diligent about maintaining backup records to provide a clear picture of the prisoners’ health.

“Sergeant Carter,” Wilson said by way of greeting as the young American appeared in the door. He looked up, pleased to have a break from plotting temperatures on a patient’s chart. “Come on in, have a seat,” he said, clearing a stack of files off the only spare chair in the cramped space and balancing them precariously on his desk.

Carter slid into his seat and grinned. Wilson couldn’t help but smile back. He saw Carter as one of those rare individuals who carry their own personal supply of sunshine wherever they go. Cheerful optimists like Carter were fascinating to a psychologist like Wilson, who dealt all the time in civilian life with adjustment problems. Carter had no adjustment problems—none. He got along with everyone and followed the rules without being a martinet about it. Wilson couldn’t look at him without thinking about his Boy Scout days—Carter truly was trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. His only bad habit was that he smoked, and he’d only picked that up since joining the service.

“Hey, Wilson,” Carter said. He outranked most of the enlisted men in camp, but didn’t act like it. “I came to see Newkirk, but he conked out after he ate.”

“That keeps happening. It’s normal,” Wilson assured him. “He’s getting his strength back up. I’m releasing him tomorrow.”

“Colonel Hogan said that,” Carter replied with excitement in his voice. “It’s great. We’ll all be glad to have him back in the barracks.” He exhaled. “Most of us, anyway. Some of the guys get jealous about food, you know?”

“He’ll come here for his meals, Carter,” Wilson said. “And we’re going to have to make the other fellows understand about the extra food. Any man who needs it should get whatever extras we can give him, and Newkirk definitely needs it.”

“Yeah,” Carter said. “The Colonel’s explaining it to them. Hey, listen, Wilson. What do you think I can do to help Newkirk?”

Wilson tapped his pencil rapidly while he thought. “Would you say Newkirk is more like a friend or a brother to you?”

“A brother, for sure,” Carter said. “And don’t tell him I said so, but I’m the older brother.”

“Well, you are older than he is,” Wilson said.

“I know that, but it’s not just about the number, because he’s had more experience with some things than I have. But I’m more patient than he is, and more in control of my emotions. I do what’s expected of me without having to be told more than once. I don’t have tantrums, and Newkirk…” Carter trailed off, reluctant to say more.

“Newkirk does,” Wilson said. “Yes, I agree with all of that. Emotionally, you’re generally more mature, although he can be pretty resilient.”

“Resilient…” Carter repeated.

“Yep. He’s a fighter who gets back in the ring no matter how many times he’s been knocked down. He might crawl off into a corner to lick his wounds a little bit, but he doesn’t let setbacks defeat him,” Wilson said. “Like with his stutter.”

“It gets him down, but just keeps going anyway,” Carter said. “He makes sure he’s heard even if he has to yell once in a while to do it.”

“So what can you do to help?” Wilson said, echoing Carter’s question. “Carter, I think the most important thing you can do is treat him like nothing is different.”

“Like I didn’t notice he quit eating?” Carter looked skeptical. “Like it didn’t happen?”

“No, it definitely happened and there’s no point hiding that. He knows he has to start eating again and gain weight. Just make sure he knows it doesn’t change what you think about him. He may be grumpy and moody and angry while he’s readjusting…” Wilson explained.

“Well, it’s not like that’s any different,” Carter said with a grin.

“It isn’t, and that’s just point. Being moody and grumpy is how he acts when he’s anxious. You’ve always been really good at accepting that being moody and anxious is part of him. Make sure he knows he can still be himself with you. And if he’s being a jerk, remember, it’s not personal,” Wilson said.

“It can _seem_ personal sometimes,” Carter said. “He can be pretty insulting, you know? He can make me feel like a real dunce.”

“I know. When he needs a punching bag, he goes to you, because he knows you won’t hurt him back,” Wilson said. “He knows you’ll still be his friend even when he lashes out. He counts on you to be the mature one.”

“Huh,” Carter said. “I never thought of it that way.”

“He trusts you with his feelings of anger and pain, Carter. He may not be able to put his fears into words, but keep letting him know you’re willing to listen and still be his friend. He needs to know there’s no time limit on your support. I think he’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”

**XXX**

Half an hour later, as Peter emerged from yet another nap, Carter got him on his feet again, luring him outside with a cigarette. After days of bedrest, Peter’s muscles were aching, but he had never let pain stop him before.

“Does it feel good to get moving?” Carter asked.

“After lying on my arse all week, it feels good to be alive,” Peter replied. “Yeah, it’s nnnice to walk, especially with the sunshine twinkling on the barbed wire. It does my blackened old heart good to see it.”

They sat on a bench outside infirmary to light up their smokes, with Peter wearing a bathrobe over a pair of voluminous white pajamas issued by the Red Cross.

As they sat chatting quietly about missions that had occurred during Peter’s hospitalization, a volleyball hopped in their direction. Two men came running after it—Mills and Olsen.

“Hey, Newkirk, how are you doing?” Olsen greeted him.

Newkirk looked up and grinned. “I’m alright, Olsen,” he said. He was smiling until he noticed Mills behind him.

“How’s it going, Newkirk?” Mills said, pausing in front of the two men on the bench. Michael Mills, a lanky Californian, had only arrived in camp three months earlier. He had quickly proved to be an asset to the team, but just as quickly, he had become a thorn in Peter’s side as he made wisecracks about his stutter and offered observations about his eating habits. Peter was so adept at redirecting attention from himself that Mills hadn't yet figured out that his words hurt.

Carter instinctively knew that he’d back off once he understood Peter’s role on the team and saw how tough he was in the face of struggles. But Peter had no such insight. He was used to being treated insensitively to the point of torment. So his immediate instinct was to classify Mills as yet another bully, shut him up and shut him out.

“How I’m doing is no b-b-business of yours, Nosy Parker,” Peter snapped back. “Mmmind your manners and pay your rent.”

“I was just asking, Newkirk,” Mills said. “I know you’ve had a rough…”

Peter cut him off. “And I was just answering," he said in a menacing tone. "And you don’t know a bloody thing about me, so go on, off with you. Take your ball and go play somewhere else.” There wasn’t a single hitch in his speech; he was angry and on the attack.

Mills and Olsen took their ball and left, looking stunned at the outburst. Carter could see Peter deflating in front of him as they walked off. It was not going to help anyone if he returned to the barracks in this frame of mind. They were going to have to talk, and soon.

Carter followed Peter’s lead, trailing after him when he finished his cigarette and got up to stroll back into the infirmary. They were barely inside when Mallory, the orderly, headed them off at the pass.

“Weight check,” he told Peter, holding him by the elbow and walking toward an examining station at the end of the infirmary, the location where sick call took place each morning. He nudged Peter onto the scale and fiddled with the weights.

“One-nineteen,” he pronounced as Peter stood there, looking baffled.

“Well, wh-what does that mean? How m-much is that in stones?” Peter asked, blinking his eyes anxiously. The British had their own system for calculating body weight, and one-nineteen meant nothing to him. Luckily, Mallory knew what he meant and quickly did the math.

“Eight and a half stone, Newkirk,” Mallory said quietly. “You’ve lost a few more pounds since the last time you were weighed, but your weight is rebounding. I think you were three or four pounds lighter earlier in the week. I can see a difference now that you're eating again.”

“Blimey, I’m halfway to being a sssseven stone w-weakling,” Peter said. “I was t-t-t-ten stone six before I landed in this bloody place.”

That explained why Peter’s uniform trousers looked so loose, Carter thought. He’d been adding stitches to the waistband since they’d met. Obviously his clothes were from a time when he was bigger and healthier.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mallory said. “We’re checking your weight just to have a new baseline. With the diet you’re receiving, you should be gaining a couple of pounds a week. We’re trying to get you back to one-forty.”

“That’s ten stone! I haven’t w-weighed that much in three years,” Peter protested. “I’ll never be able to do this.” He exhaled sharply. “Are we done here?” he asked Mallory.

“Yes, I just needed to perform a weight check,” Mallory replied. “You can head back to your bed. Dinner will be ready in about an hour.”

“LeBeau said he was going to bring your meal tonight,” Carter said as he followed a desponded Peter back to his bed. “Won’t it be good to see Louis?”

Peter shrugged, but didn’t reply. He climbed into bed and sat there, lost in thought. When Carter pulled out a pack of cards, they played a few fast-paced rounds of the German card game Sixty-Six, which they’d learned from the guards. But after only twenty minutes, Peter asked for the deck and entertained himself with a quiet game of solitaire while Carter sat and watched and wondered how he could ever do enough to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A stone is 14 pounds and it is the usual method of describing human body weight in Britain even now. 
> 
> -A person weighing 146 pounds would be 10 stone 6 pounds (10 stone 6)  
> -119 pounds would be 8 stone 7 (8 1/2 stone)  
> \- In a previous chapter, I wrote that Newkirk was 132 pounds (9 stone 4) a few weeks earlier when he stopped eating, and lost 9 pounds to fall to 123 pounds (8 stone 11). Yes, his weight has been dropping like a rock, pun intended.  
> \- A "seven stone weakling" is literally the same thing as being a "98 pound weakling" in American terms.


	21. Prêt pas prêt

Carter figured LeBeau’s appearance in the infirmary would cheer Peter up, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. When LeBeau arrived at six o’clock, carrying food from the sergeants’ mess on a covered tray, Peter barely looked up from his solitaire game.

“Bread, butter, cheese, potato soup, steamed carrots,” LeBeau said as he set the food down and pushed the rows of cards to one side. “And I brought you some apple strudel,” he added, setting it down with a flourish.

No response. LeBeau flicked his eyes over to Carter, who shrugged almost imperceptibly. Then, after a moment, LeBeau tapped on the tray.

“Anyone home?” he asked.

No response, unless jutting out a lower lip counted. LeBeau now looked directly at Carter, who had been seated at Peter’s bedside for an hour and a half. Carter, unfortunately, had nothing: Only a few words had passed between them in all that time, as Peter alternated between playing solitaire, leafing through a magazine, and dozing. Sitting with Peter had been like watching a turtle draw itself back into its shell.

“He just woke up,” Carter said with a shrug. “Maybe he needs a little time to adjust, right Newkirk?”

“Leave off,” Peter snarled. “I don’t need to bleeding _adjust_ ,” he said, putting a ferocious spin on the last word and slapping a card down hard.

“Hmm,” LeBeau said. “Most of this food can wait, but the soup will get cold, so let’s start there.”

“No,” Peter said firmly.

“Sorry, but it can’t wait,” LeBeau said. “Lift up your spoon unless you want me to do it. Put the game aside.”

Peter groaned miserably, but he gathered up his cards, then picked up his spoon and gingerly stuck it in the soup. “Are there onions in it?” he asked.

“No, I made sure of that. I prepared it myself,” LeBeau said. “I have been cooking for 30 German guards just so that I can keep a portion for you. I hope you are grateful, because they are certainly are.” LeBeau’s tone was more lighthearted than mocking.

Peter heaved out a sigh and took a spoonful of the soup. Carter could see it looked hearty, smooth and creamy. At work in the Sergeants’ mess, LeBeau really had laid on the butter and milk and had snatched Peter’s portion away to blend it thoroughly before adding onion, mustard and dill to the rest of the batch. For his labors, he was able to feed the Sergeants and take a pail of soup back to the men in Barracks 2 to bolster their evening meal, and their spirits.

“I can tell you made it,” Peter said grudgingly as he tasted it. LeBeau smiled. He knew that was praise.

To Carter’s surprise, Peter proceeded to eat it, slowly and methodically, and when he was near the bottom of the bowl, he picked it up to drain what was left.

“You were very hungry,” LeBeau observed.

“Yes, I get hungry, but I can’t eat everything,” Peter snapped. “It’s too much bloody food.”

Carter was shocked by the hostile tone, but he noticed that LeBeau took it in stride.

For his part, LeBeau tried not to sigh, but inside he was growing irritated. Back to this tiresome argument, he thought. He mustered up every bit of patience within him before answering.

“I promise you it is exactly the amount of food you need. I have weighed and measured it myself,” LeBeau said calmly. “I know it isn’t easy, but you are strong.”

“They want me to gain twenty pounds, Louis! Twenty! I can’t do it!” Peter’s voice was getting louder, and it was quavering now.

LeBeau’s eyebrows shot up in concern, but he quickly composed himself and focused on calming down his friend.

“ _Chut, chut_ ,” LeBeau said soothingly. “Who told you that?”

Peter hung his head, refusing again to answer.

Carter shifted forward in his chair, suddenly realizing what was troubling Peter. Before he could censor himself, the words were out of his mouth: “Mallory mentioned it. Newkirk’s kind of been in a funk ever since then.”

“Funk you,” Peter muttered under his breath. Carter reared back, stung by the rudeness even though Peter hadn’t said what he could have said.

LeBeau shook his head in exasperation. Of course, Mallory meant no harm, but Pierre needed small steps, not sweeping goals. No wonder he was being petulant. His feelings of being overwhelmed were a big part of the problem they were trying to fix, and he didn’t have much perspective in his current condition. Now he was taking it out on Carter, who never wanted to do anything but help.

Carter felt LeBeau’s hand on his shoulder, providing reassurance, as he addressed Peter.

“Pierre, look at me,” LeBeau said firmly, standing at his bedside. “Chin up. Look at me.”

Peter raised his head reluctantly. Carter could see he was fighting back his emotions with everything he had, but his eyes were growing misty.

“Forget twenty pounds. What a ridiculous thing to say,” LeBeau said, waving his arm dramatically.

“That’s what I said,” Peter replied, seeming grateful to be understood. “It’s too much weight. It’s impossible.”

“Of course it is,” LeBeau continued, pouring on the outrage. “No one sets out to gain twenty pounds. You gain one gram or… what do you call it? One ounce at a time, anyone can do that. But any more than that is crazy!”

“An ounce makes sense. Or even a few ounces. I can gain that much,” Peter replied reasonably. “But not twenty pounds. I j-j-just can’t.”

“Right! Who could do that? Nobody! All you can do is gain an ounce at a time. And you don’t need to think about even one ounce, because I will take care of everything, _compris_?” LeBeau slid onto the bed to face Peter. “All you need is to trust me. Put the food to your lips and swallow, and I will do the rest.”

Peter locked eyes with LeBeau and nodded sincerely. Then he leaned forward to rest his head on LeBeau’s shoulder.

“Do you trust me, Pierre?” LeBeau asked softly.

“Of course I trust you,” Peter replied. He closed his eyes and concentrated on LeBeau’s beating heart.

“Good, then everything will be fine,” LeBeau said. “We have done this before, _n’est-ce pas_?”

“Yes, j-just us. There was no infirmary and no medics and no one saying I had to gain twenty bloody pounds. Which is bleeding impossible.”

“Those were the bad old days,” LeBeau joked. “And you’re right, it was just us and we can do it again, alright, _mon pote_?”

Carter watched at Peter pressed his face into LeBeau, nodding his head. LeBeau held him tight, then got back to business.

“Now, let’s try some bread and butter,” he said.

LeBeau shifted his position so his arm was wrapped around Peter. He buttered the bread and cut up his cheese and stayed right there as Peter consumed the rest of his meal.

Carter watched in amazement as the wall that had been up for the past two hours came tumbling down. LeBeau’s hand never left Peter as he coaxed him through his meal step by step, offering assurance that he was doing just fine. Quietly, over and over, he let him know that it was enough food, and not too much, and that he could finish, even if it took him time. It was 6:40 PM when he did finish, and Carter was beginning to understand that that was a land speed record for Peter’s meals. By then, Peter was conversing warmly with both of them as if a dark cloud had lifted. He smiled as he finished off the last bite of apple strudel and pronounced it delicious.

For the next hour, it was back to normal. They played cards and chatted and joked, but Carter was struggling inside with how frail Peter seemed.

Making his way back to the barracks that night, Carter was deep in thought. This situation seemed harder for Peter than he realized. He would be back in the barracks soon, and Carter was glad for that. But he was concerned about what would happen. Peter was really testy with Mills, who had been one of the chief grumblers about his tendency to leave food on the plate. He was rattled by learning out how little he weighed and how much Wilson expected him to gain. He had just started gaining traction; was he going to slip into reverse once he left the peace and warmth of the infirmary?

Carter went straight in to see Colonel Hogan, who was in his quarters finishing up the next day’s duty roster before rollcall. He sat rubbing his forehead, as if he could wipe away the stresses of the day.

“Colonel Hogan, Sir?” Carter said as he entered.

“Carter, come in,” Hogan said. “You’re in the motor pool tomorrow.”

“It beats latrine duty, Sir,” Carter said with a grin.

“You’re a tech sergeant. You don’t get latrine duty,” Hogan replied warmly. He laid down his pencil and gave Carter his full attention. “How’s our friend doing?”

“Honestly, Sir, I’m worried. I didn’t realize he was in such bad shape.”

That got Hogan’s attention. “What happened? Did he take a turn for the worse?”

“No, it wasn’t that, He started out in a pretty good mood, but soon everything was getting under his skin. First he started snapping at Mills when we went outside to smoke. Then Mallory told him he needed to gain twenty pounds, and it was like the sky went dark. He got really sulky and he even gave LeBeau a hard time about eating when he got there.”

“He always gives LeBeau a hard time, so that’s nothing,” Hogan said. He could see how worried Carter was, and he was casting about for an explanation to ease his mind.

“This was different, Sir. He was really overwhelmed, and kept saying he can’t gain that much weight,” Carter said, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. “Colonel, I feel really bad for saying it, but I don’t think he’s ready to come back to the barracks.”


	22. Un Sang D'Encre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I put this up and then took it down quickly because I realized I had made a timeline error! It’s fixed now. I apologize for the short chapter; I have been focused primarily on a different story for now, but I wanted to post something.

Hogan usually managed to look upbeat and in control in all situations, but Carter’s comments got to him. His face fell as he beckoned the young Sergeant to a seat at the table that served as his desk in the corner of his quarters. “Sit down, Carter,” he said. “What exactly are you worried about?”

“Colonel, we’re all walking on eggshells around him,” Carter said. “Getting him to eat is really hard work. I don’t see the other guys being very nice about it, and if they start getting under his skin and he starts reacting, I think he’ll be right back where he started. He shouldn’t be back in the barracks.”

“He could always stay here in my quarters,” Hogan began.

“And if he does, that’ll make him an immediate target, Sir. Everyone will be wondering what’s wrong, and if they don’t like the answer they’ll be mad that he gets special treatment, or they’ll speculate…well, never mind that, but it’ll be ugly, that’s all I can say,” Carter said.

“They’re good men, Carter,” Hogan said. “And I’ve already talked to them.”

“I know they’re good men, but they’re not ready to see him like this, Sir,” Carter said. “And it’ll be bad for him. He’s too frail to be part of…”

“Part of the team?” Hogan said, with a bewildered tone to his voice.

“Yes,” Carter said. “I’m sorry, but yes. He’s like blown glass, Sir. Maybe he’ll harden in time, but right now he’s too fragile and uneven to be in here with all the guys.”

Hogan let out a breath. He knew Carter had a point, but Newkirk’s absence couldn’t continue indefinitely. It was distracting his core team—himself, Carter, Kinch and most of all LeBeau—and Newkirk’s unique skills were sorely missed. He believed a return to familiar surroundings would help Newkirk get back to normal. 

“Wilson thinks he’s ready, Carter,” Hogan said.

“With all due respect, Sir, Wilson sees calories are going in, and he thinks Newkirk’s making progress. And Newkirk’s really good at making people see what they want to see.”

“Being manipulative?” Hogan said. “Is that what you’re driving at?”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Carter shrugged. “Newkirk would call it ‘misdirection.’ You know, like sleight of hand.”

Hogan nodded. “Carter, I know you wouldn’t bring up your concerns lightly. But I have to trust Wilson on this.” He crossed his arms and looked intently at the Sergeant. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll talk with Wilson in the morning, together. Alright? Maybe you’ll give him a reason to rethink his recommendation. But if you don’t, Newkirk comes back tomorrow.”

Carter dipped his head and nodded. “That’s fair, Sir,” he said.

**XXX**

Sitting in his cramped office with Carter and Hogan the next morning, Wilson was thumbing through Newkirk’s chart.

“He’s stabilized, Carter,” Wilson said. “Pulse is good,” he said, running a finger over the chart. “Blood pressure’s good, and so are his standing rates, and those had me pretty worried at first. His body weight’s 82 percent of where I want to see it, and as long as it’s over 75 percent, I’m satisfied for now. I’m not worried about his body temperature, although we do need to make sure he’s kept warm at night—I’m not joking about that. Extra blankets, and check on him to make sure they’re still in place. His weight gain is steady, and he’s starting to tolerate activity now that he’s been out of bed. There are a few things we need to work on, but his underlying health is stable.”

“There’s just something wrong, Wilson,” Carter said.

“Of course there is, Carter. There’s plenty wrong,” Wilson said. “He’s still dragging out every meal because the food makes him anxious. We need to get meals down to 30 minutes and snacks down to 15 minutes. And the sooner we get him back to his normal surroundings, the sooner I think that will happen. He’s not going to want to hang around over here. He’s going to want to be with you guys. We’ll ease him back into eating meals in the barracks within a few days.”

Carter was still shaking his head. “The guys are going to eat him for lunch if he’s being all touchy and mopey,” he said.

“Right,” Wilson said. “And what’s the worst that could happen?”

Carter shrugged.

“Carter, I get how worried you are. We’re all concerned for Newkirk. But he’s cooperating…”

“You call that cooperation? Every meal is a negotiation!” Carter said.

“… Yes, he’s cooperating. He’s eating what he’s given. What he says about it is a different matter. But the food is going down, and that’s a big improvement.” Wilson paused and thought about what he needed to say to Carter to ease his fears. “Everybody’s used to Newkirk being tough as nails, Carter. And the guy is a survivor. But when he whines and carries on, that’s his way of saying he needs help. He doesn’t know how to say those words otherwise.”

“There’s no trick to it! You just say them!” Carter snapped.

“No, Carter, _you_ just say them. Newkirk doesn’t even know how to say what he needs to LeBeau, and there’s no one in this camp that he trusts more. Eating is a big struggle for him, and that’s not going to magically go away by confining him to a hospital bed.”

“But what if he breaks down or lashes out and the other guys or even worse, starts fussing and, you know… loses it?”

“Carter, we can’t protect him from how he feels by keeping him here. You can give him some privacy if you think he’s getting worked up, but he’s ready to return to the barracks tonight. He’ll need one-to-one supervision for the first 48 hours, and someone will have to accompany him to meals. ”

“Alright,” Hogan said. “Then that’s the plan.”

**XXX**

LeBeau spent the day by Newkirk’s side, and once again wrapped an arm around his friend as he ate breakfast and lunch. Wilson watched and took note; LeBeau seemed to know instinctively what to do, and his technique was working. The hand on his shoulder calmed Newkirk; they spoke quietly to one another, and it was clear LeBeau was doing some coaxing, but the meal went quicker and the food was consumed.

That evening after roll call, Hogan hustled over to the infirmary. Newkirk was polishing off a princely meal of ham, potatoes and carrots. Now Louis was by his side, a hand on his knee, but Newkirk was getting the job done himself. LeBeau looked up at Hogan and gave a small tip of the head.

 _He’s motivated_ , Hogan thought. _I’ll bet he wants out._ He went in the direction of Wilson’s office.

“Wilson,” Hogan hailed the Sergeant. “Is Newkirk ready to be discharged?”

“He’s in a great mood this evening, and he got through two meals on his own,” Wilson replied. “I’d say he’s doing very well.” He pulled out a sheet of paper to review with Hogan. “He’s not to stand rollcall for the next two days; I’ve already squared that with Klink. I expect him to report here at mealtimes; LeBeau or anyone you want to send can accompany him. He can go out in the yard for walks, but no brisk exercise.”

“He’ll ask about his football,” Hogan said.

“He can pass it back and forth, but no running. Not yet. Let’s focus on getting his activity level up to simple things like walking. Bedtime should be strictly observed, and try to get him to take a nap after lunch. He has to be supervised—that means someone goes with him wherever he goes, even if it’s to the latrine. And, I probably don’t have to say this, but I’ll mention it—absolutely no missions until I clear him.”

“OK,” Hogan said, taking the list and looking it over with some concern. “You’re sure he’s ready?”

“There are no guarantees in life, Colonel, but he’s not going to get back full strength lying in the infirmary. Take him home.”  
  



	23. Le Retour

“You sure you don’t want one last night in a nice, soft infirmary bed?” Hogan joked as Newkirk got dressed.

“No, thank you, Sir. It smells like a hospital in here, and you’re not left alone long enough to get comfortable,” Newkirk replied, pulling his jacket on and settling down on a chair to tie his boots. “I’ve had my fill of medics poking and pr-pr-prodding at me at all hours with thermometers and God knows what else,” he added, glaring at a passing orderly.

It had been a tough week, but Newkirk was back; Hogan could see that. If the snarky Cockney was complaining, the balance of the universe had been restored. Not that Hogan wasn’t worried; he was. He had watched as Newkirk pulled his undershirt on, and he was pretty sure he could play the xylophone on those ribs. He had noticed how Newkirk tightened his belt to the last notch to keep his pants up, and how they still looked droopy. But he was on his feet and arguing. That was progress.

Newkirk, for his part, had to put up objections; he took his reputation as a tough guy seriously. But even if he couldn’t admit it to Colonel Hogan, the hospital bed had been an improvement, and the crisp white sheets had been especially nice. He hadn’t felt so clean in years.

Being in pajamas for a week with people fussing over him and telling him what to do had its limits, though. It was like having his mother and all seven of his older sisters hovering and feeling his forehead and watching his every move. Naggy nannies everywhere. The attention was lovely, to a point. Then it became merely tolerable, and then bloody annoying.

Newkirk stuffed his meager possessions into a rucksack that Hogan had brought over from the barracks. Cards, cigarettes, two books, a magazine, extra socks, and a blanket that Wilson had ordered him to take and use. He folded the loathsome white hospital pajamas, two sizes too big for him and left them on the bed. He wouldn’t miss those. His flannel nightshirt was much softer. His eyes flicked over to the pillow. Alright, he would miss that.

“Ready to go, Sir,” Newkirk said. On his way down the corridor, he shook Mallory’s hand, and then popped into Wilson’s office to sign out and endure a lecture about showing up on time for meals and listening to LeBeau.

“I’ll have you right back in here if I find out you’re not cooperating. I mean it,” Wilson warned.

“I know,” Newkirk said. “And I appreciate what you’ve d-done for me, Doc. I’ll be back in the morning for br-br-breakfast.” Normally, Newkirk took every opportunity to squabble with Wilson, but he shook his hand and looked serious. He knew he’d let himself get seriously ill and that Wilson had saved him.

“Good. Don’t let the other guys get under your skin,” Wilson said in a more kindly tone, patting his shoulder. “There’s enough food to go around, and any man who needs extra will get it. Colonel Hogan is very good at seeing to that.”

**XXX**

Hogan held Newkirk by the elbow as they walked across the compound in early September's twilight. Newkirk had spent most of the week in bed, and when he did get up to try out his legs again, there had been someone by his side to lean on. But this was the farthest he had walked in days. As they got closer to the barracks, he knew he looked slow and feeble, so he pushed himself to find his usual cocky walk. By the time they passed the Kommandantur, he had gained a brisk and jaunty stride. And when Hogan pushed open the door to Barracks 2, Newkirk was grateful that he let go his arm. It wouldn’t do to be seen needing help.

LeBeau greeted Hogan and Newkirk at the table with a warm smile and hot mugs of cocoa, so both men sat down as soon as they were inside. Olsen and Garlotti were already at the table. Newkirk could feel himself relax as LeBeau crowded in next to him, shoulder to shoulder, because every bump of LeBeau’s elbow against Newkirk’s ribs felt snug and familiar and comfortable. This was just right.

LeBeau shared biscuits from a Red Cross package all around, one to a man. He silently slipped an extra to Newkirk, who dunked it in his drink and devoured it. When LeBeau offered him a third one, he bit his lip and waited for a stare or a comment before accepting it. No one looked askance or said a word, so the plain biscuit, soft and gooey from its encounter with the hot cocoa, slid past his lips and over his tongue to warm his belly.

Everyone knew their role was to take Newkirk’s return in stride. There was to be no fuss; no discussion of why he’d been gone; only companionship and, in short order, a card game.

Soon, Carter and Kinch wandered up from the tunnel, slapping Newkirk on the back but saying nothing other than a few wisecracks about his betting strategy. He lost the first three hands, but won the next three after lulling his opponents into the sort of complacent success that makes a man raise his stakes when he ought to fold.

By the time Schultz lumbered into the barracks with a 15-minute lights-out warning, Newkirk was scraping a pile of winnings toward his end of the table. He’d cornered the Barracks 2 market for worthless aluminum pfennigs left over from the last war. Casually examining his haul, Newkirk calculated that since 20 pfennigs were worth one gingersnap in camp currency, they’d be in biscuits for days.

“Newkirk, you’re back!” Schultz greeted him enthusiastically. “It’s been so quiet here without you!”

“I’ve never thought of myself as the loudest bloke in the b-barracks,” Newkirk replied. “But thank you, I think.”

“I hear you’ve been getting lots to eat in the infirmary,” Schultz continued cheerfully, because no topic gave him greater happiness than food, provided the focus was on its abundance. “Oh, you have become much too skinny,” he said, tsk-tsking as he looking him over. “Your cheeks are hollow.”

“He’s doing great, Schultz,” Hogan said, casting a glance at Newkirk. He was holding his head up, but his color was rising. “Hey, speaking of hollow, come over here,” Hogan said, standing and pulling Schultz toward his office. “You little a little hungry, and I’ve got those chocolate bars I owe you.”

Garlotti and Olsen cleared off, leaving just Hogan’s core team at the table. Newkirk’s thumb was rubbing hard at the corner of his mouth in an anxious gesture that he sometimes fell into when he was deep in thought. Not even Carter’s nervous prattle about his latest idea for a pocket-sized incendiary device shook him out of his thoughts. Kinch, who was busy writing a letter, looked up and glanced at LeBeau with concern.

Finally, LeBeau took charge, squeezing Newkirk’s elbow in a way he knew would gently dislodge his hand from his mouth. “We all need to get to bed,” he said softly. “Pierre, do you have everything you need?”

“Yes,” Newkirk replied absently, but he didn’t move from the table. Finally, he turned, looked at LeBeau and whispered, “How sk-sk-skinny am I? Is it really that noticeable?”

“Ignore it,” LeBeau said quietly. “You’re eating and you’re filling out. All you need to think about is eating what you’re given, _oui_?”

“Yes, alright,” Newkirk said, trying to accept LeBeau’s reassurance. But he caught Carter’s eyes and saw sadness in them. “What’s wrong, Carter?” he asked gently.

Carter forced out a grin. “I just missed you, buddy. I’m glad you’re back. I never realized how much the vibrations from your snore help me sleep.”

“Shut up, Carter,” Newkirk said with a genuine smile. “You heard Louis. It’s nearly bedtime. Get in your bunk.”

With that, Carter’s smile reached his eyes, and he stood up and stretched. “I’m not gonna argue with that,” he said. “I’ve had a bunch of late nights lately. Hey, did anyone tell you about the raid on Buehler’s farm? That was a doozy, boy…”

He didn’t get any further, because at that moment Schultz emerged from Hogan’s office, in possession of three chocolate bars and a repentant expression.

“ _Lichter aus_!” he announced. “Now is the time for all good boys to go to bed!”

“Well, that lets us off the hook, then,” Newkirk grinned. “We’re all bad boys.”

“Newkirk…” Schultz groaned. “Just listen to me and go to bed.” He paused and then added, “And I am very sorry for mentioning how thin you are.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re bringing it up again and again, is it? Twice in three minutes is hardly anything at all,” Newkirk replied in a cutting voice. “Talk all you want; I don’t care,” he said with more anger surfacing.

“Oh, well that’s good to know, because Colonel Hogan told me…”

“…That we could feed half of Hammelburg on what Schultz eats for lunch,” Hogan said, steering Schultz to the door. “Say good night, Schultz.”

A chorus of good nights followed, and then the room went quiet as men shuffled to their bunks, rummaged in their footlockers, availed themselves of the night bucket before some lucky sod got to slop it to the latrine, and jockeyed for space at the sink to brush their teeth.

Newkirk went through all those motions, and had just peeled off his woolen jumper and undershirt when he felt a pair of eyes on him.

“What are you staring at, Carter?” he asked irritably, crossing his arms over his chest in a pointless attempt to hide his thin frame.

“I was just thinking,” Carter replied, scrambling in his mind for another acceptable white lie. “If you were going to get a tattoo, where would you put it? Your chest or your arm?”

Newkirk let out his breath and appeared to relax. He thumped his chest, and was about to explain when a voice boomed out from the across the room. It was the only other Englishman in Barracks 2, a Manchester United fan named Eddie Blount.

“Chest or arm? Neither one,” he bellowed. “He’d tattoo his arse, for Arsenal.”

“Up the Gunners!” Newkirk shouted back, grinning broadly. He looked around and spotted an eraser on top of the letter Kinch had been writing and chucked it across the room, beaning Blount on the head.

“Good aim, Pete,” Kinch said with admiration. “Now give it back, Blount.”

Blount’s aim was just as good, and it sailed across the room, bopping Peter on the head.

“Good, we’re even,” Newkirk said. “Here’s your rubber, Kinch.”

“Rubber?” A chorus of hoots went up from the Americans, and it was Hogan who had to intervene and explain the meaning of the British word to the American contingent, and the meaning of the American word to the British contingent.

Soon everyone was laughing so loud that no one heard the lights-out horn out in the compound. Schultz was back at the door pleading for silence and darkening the room himself.

Newkirk settled onto his bunk, finding the familiar pockets and pits in his meager excuse for a mattress. The sounds of his mates whispering and breathing and snoring all around him was soothing, and he soon drifted asleep.

Beneath him, Carter concentrated on the contented snuffling sounds from the bunk above him. You couldn’t exactly call it a snore, he decided; it was soft and even and kind of nice, and he really had missed it. He was glad Newkirk was back in the barracks, but he still couldn’t shake his concern. Tonight could have gone bad a half-dozen ways, and Newkirk had only been back for two hours. And, Carter reminded himself, he was a terrible liar. He had pulled off one white lie when noticed how upset Newkirk was by Schultz's question, and another one when he saw his emaciated torso, but he was afraid he was going to put his foot in his mouth any minute.


	24. Travail Forcé

It started off easy. For the first few days, LeBeau walked Newkirk over to the infirmary three times a day and patiently sat with him while he ate. The goals were simple: Eat everything you’re given, and finish the meal in no longer than 30 minutes. Back at the barracks, LeBeau was in charge of giving Newkirk three snacks, which were to take no longer than 15 minute each.

It took several days to get the meal times down, and Newkirk predictably grumbled about the volume of food. But now all it took to move him along was a reminder that LeBeau was indeed willing to spoon feed him. When LeBeau picked up the fork himself, Newkirk jumped into action, too proud to be seen as requiring help.

And back in the barracks, LeBeau did his best to make snacks a pleasant social occasion. Even before Newkirk had been released from his hospital bed, LeBeau had begun hoarding English biscuits by trading razor blades and Swiss chocolate from his private stash, building up a nice surplus of Newkirk’s favorites. To LeBeau, the sight of his friend relaxing and helping himself to another chocolate biscuit was an immense relief, and the decision to skip his afternoon shave had been a small price to pay.

Newkirk gained three pounds the first week and two pounds the second week, and seemed to be well on his way to recovery.

Carter, meanwhile, was Newkirk’s designated buddy. He would have been anyway; if Newkirk wasn’t with LeBeau, he always defaulted to Carter. LeBeau tended to be busier than most of the men during the daytime because of his responsibilities as a cook both to Barracks 2 and for any visiting dignitaries. So Carter and Newkirk walked together, slowly at first, then a little faster as Newkirk regained his strength. By the end of Newkirk’s first week of freedom, they could be found tossing a baseball or passing a football back and forth.

They were out in the compound one day when creaking wheels and the clomping of hooves announced the approach of a work party. They crowded toward the fence to watch as a group of two dozen prisoners with shaved heads and _Ost-Arbeiter_ badges trudged along behind four carts laden with turnips. Their clothes were ragged. Some had bare knees; some had trouser legs flapping behind them. Their boots were badly worn, and a handful had no boots at all.

“Wow, look at those guys. They’re starving,” Carter said as they plodded past the camp gates.

“I don’t think they’re ‘guys,’ Andrew. They look like women and children to me,” Newkirk said. “We’ve seen the Polish and Ukrainian workers at the brickyards. This lot wouldn’t be strong enough for that, but they can still work them to death pulling up turnips.”

The foreman of the work party blew a whistle, bringing them all to a halt outside the fence. Silence fell as everyone stopped in their tracks, and the prisoners inside the gate stared out at the prisoners outside the gate.

“And we think we’re badly off,” an American voice whispered behind Newkirk and Carter. They turned and saw it was Harper from their barracks.

“It’s disgraceful,” Newkirk muttered. He turned and saw Carter jutting his jaw out, barely containing his anger—and Carter never got angry.

The foreman watched as two of his deputies each pulled two wooden pails off a cart. He took all four pails, holding two handles in each hand, and approached the gate and spoke briefly with the guard on duty. The foreman was requesting water. The guard received approval from another guard up in the tower and two more guards slid the gate open to admit him. All the prisoners watched in silence as the foreman filled the buckets at the well.

Then the guard yanked two men forward—Carter and Newkirk. He shoved them toward the foreman, and the message was clear: Carry the pails, which were now heavy with water. Carter and Newkirk did as they were instructed, under a guard’s watch.

The foreman offered the guard at the gate a cigarette, and together they stood smoking as Carter and Newkirk placed the pails down. The deputies came forward with ladles and handed them to the two men.

“ _Ich füttere keine Schweine. Sie werden es tun_ ,” a deputy foreman said with a sneer. Any prisoner would have understood “pigs.” Newkirk and Carter kept a bewildered look on their faces, but they got the whole thing—“I don’t like to feed the pigs. You will do it.”

By now, Hogan was rushing toward the gate, with Corporal Langenscheidt trailing behind him.

“Where’s Schultz?” Hogan was snapping at Langenscheidt.

“He is in town with the Kommandant. He won’t be back for two hours. Please, Colonel, the work party will pass. Just let them finish.”

Hogan stood at the gate demanding to be let out to join Carter and Newkirk. The sight of the American Colonel gesturing angrily toward his men filled the gate guard with fear, and he did as Hogan insisted. Hogan came up behind Newkirk as he was ladling out water to a woman with hollow eyes and dry lips.

Behind her came a boy of about 13, his shirt open where the buttons had fallen off, his top ribs poking through his skin. His fingernails were torn and bloody. His eyes were vacant until Newkirk lifted the ladle to his lips and softly said, “wypić.” Suddenly the boy smiled.

“What does that mean?” Carter said, turning to Newkirk suddenly.

“Something I’ve heard some mums say to their children on hot days in the East End,” Newkirk said. “I think it’s Polish or Yiddish for ‘drink it all.’ It can’t be bad, because the kids always smiled when their mums said it.”

“Vippich,” Carter said as he served up the drinks. He felt Colonel Hogan’s hand land on his shoulder and he turned to give him a tight smile.

“My God, they smell awful,” said the guard who had followed Hogan out. Hogan’s fists clenched in reply, but he said nothing. No point wasting words on someone who was conditioned to hate, and too ignorant to see that treating laborers as subhuman had certain inevitable effects.

A third ladle materialized, and Hogan took it up, joining his men in doling out drinks to the emaciated laborers. Each one softly thanked them. Some seemed to do so out of terror of what might happen to them if they did not offer thanks, and that was heartbreaking. But some looked them in the eye with all the humanity they could muster to acknowledge a kind deed.

Soon, all the laborers had been given their drink, and a second, and they were on their way. As extra water in the pails was splashed out onto the dirt, Newkirk caught sight of a prisoner, older and stooped and trailing behind the others, as she looked over her shoulder in longing for more.

As the work party tromped off into the distance, Hogan laid a hand on Newkirk and Carter’s backs and steered them back into the gates and toward the barracks. He would have words with Klink later.

Harper, Mills, and Davis had all been outside, part of the crowd watching the spectacle, and they followed Hogan and his men inside. As Newkirk and Carter settled in at the table, Harper laid a hand on each man’s shoulder. “I’ll boil water for some tea,” he said quietly. Newkirk nodded and lit a cigarette, his hand shaking. Carter murmured “Cocoa for me” and cradled his head in his hand.

Hogan sat down at the table, and all around the room, men started talking at once. Everyone but Carter and Newkirk.

“They’re working those people to death,” Mills said.

“They’re women and children. That’s disgusting. I know the Nazis are bad, but jeez. When you finally see it…” Davis said.

"I can't believe they're so thin and weak and they're still doing so much work," Harper said.

"Damned Nazis," Mills said. "Damn, damn."

The room went quiet for a moment, then Carter spoke up.

“I wish we could feed them,” he said. “I could go without food for a few days to feed them.”

“Me too,” Newkirk said. And just like that, the curtain fell again. How could anyone possibly want food when people were starving right in front of them?


	25. Chaviré

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title means "Capsized."

“What?” LeBeau said as he entered an eerily quiet barracks room. His big brown eyes looked around in alarm. He’d been in the Kommandant’s kitchen most of the day, preparing a meal for Klink and three visiting dignitaries. He'd arrived back in the barracks in good cheer, carrying a plate of hors d’oeuvres and pockets full of rolls and cookies, only to find Carter and Newkirk looking crestfallen.

Hogan, who was frowning in deep concern, got to his feet and gestured to LeBeau to sit at the table.

“A work party of prisoners just passed by the gate. Poles and Ukranians, or maybe Gypsies. Mostly women and older children. Newkirk and Carter gave them water, but…” Hogan began.

“It’ll never be enough,” Carter said. “They’re going to die.”

“You don’t know that,” LeBeau said softly. “You can’t predict. People are resilient.”

“People are expendable,” Newkirk said, just as quietly. “And Carter’s right. They’re being w-worked to death.”

“We can’t feed them all,” Hogan said. “And even if we did, it wouldn’t be enough.” He felt horrible saying the words. One meal wasn’t going to save them, and even if they could provide it, accepting it might earn the women and children a beating, or worse.

LeBeau sat in silence. He’d been excited to bring back the hors d’oeuvres. He’d selected a small batch for the men of Barracks 2 with an eye on what Newkirk would eat. Meatballs with a very simple sauce, and some tiny ham and cheese quiches in a pastry shell. The quiches, with three distinct flavors and textures, were a bit of a stretch for Newkirk, but separately they were familiar flavors and he wanted him to take a few bites.

He sighed, but the food wouldn’t be hot for long, and there was no such thing as a good time when bad news was in the air. “This is probably not the moment to tell you this,” LeBeau said as he slipped the cover off the dish, “but I brought something back, and all of you need to eat any extras we can get our hands on.”

The aroma was delicious, and as LeBeau pulled a clutch of toothpicks out of his pocket, men all around the barracks filed over and lined up. There was enough for everyone to have several bites.

LeBeau poked a toothpick into a meatball and handed it to Newkirk, but he was shaking his head, and wouldn’t raise up his hands to take it. Instead, he started getting up. LeBeau grabbed him tightly by the arm and refused to let go. Hogan noticed and came up from behind Newkirk. He pressed a hand down on his shoulder. Kinch, who had been dozing on his bunk, observed them apprehensively as he joined the line of men that was now snaking through the barracks.

LeBeau watched as men speared their food, nodding and chatting as they thanked him, all while gripping Newkirk tightly. Carter reluctantly took his share; Kinch brought up the rear, taking a few morsels and then sitting beside Carter. Hogan was now leaning bodily into Newkirk.

“You should have some too, Newkirk,” Kinch said quietly. “We all need the nourishment.”

“Open,” LeBeau said, holding a tiny meatball to his lips.

Newkirk was looking down and shaking his head. “The smell,” he said, and suddenly he lurched from the table, gagging. The rapid movement startled Hogan, who lost his grip on the corporal. He caught up with him at the edge of Carter’s bunk, where Newkirk had created a puddle of vomit before sinking to his knees in misery.

“I’ll clean it up,” Newkirk said weakly, but he was struggling just to stay upright.

Hogan held a hand to Newkirk's forehead—no fever, he noted. “Uh-uh,” he said. “We’ll handle that. Come on, just lie down.” He grabbed Newkirk under the arms and steered him to Carter’s bunk. Newkirk curled into a ball, facing the wall. Hogan sat at the edge of the bed beside him and let out a frustrated sigh.

Harper, Mills and Davis exchanged disgusted looks, but Carter got to his feet and inspected the mess. “Some sawdust would help absorb the moisture and odor,” he said. “Can one of you guys go and fetch some?” Kinch, meanwhile, had wrung out a cloth and handed it off to Hogan.

Harper was all too happy to oblige, and with Mills on his heels, he went in the direction of the Stalag’s workshop. The chief carpenter, Sergeant Klimmer, was easygoing and would help.

LeBeau, meanwhile, hadn’t budged from the table. His back was to the bunk where Newkirk was lying, and his head was low. It was like Hogan often said about Newkirk, he thought. Two steps forward, then one step back. He was like a small boat with a good sail that anyone could see, but below the surface was a delicate hull. If he caught the wind just right, it filled his sails and he glided along. But a strong gust could knock him off course and run him aground, and that hull just wasn't strong enough. It was so exhausting to be his friend and to see him constantly dashing himself against the rocks.

LeBeau got to his feet and emptied his pockets of bread and cookies, leaving them in a pile on the table. Then he headed to the door.

"LeBeau? Where are you going?" Carter called as the door swung open.

"I need some air," LeBeau replied. He stepped outside, tugged the door shut, and leaned into the barracks wall. He brushed irritably at the tear that was trickling down his cheek. This felt hopeless. 


	26. Retour à la Case Départ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title means "Back to Square One"

Hogan looked up from the bunk where Newkirk was fighting nausea. “Kinch,” he said, gesturing toward the door.

“Go get Wilson. Yes Sir, I’m on my way,” Kinch replied. Hogan nodded distractedly as he refocused on Newkirk. He was speaking quietly to him as Carter concentrated on cleaning up what he could.

Kinch had just stepped outside when he saw LeBeau perched in his usual place. But instead of being as alert as usual, with his eyes sweeping the compound to keep an eye on their captors, LeBeau sat with his head down. Kinch stood over him for a moment, then crouched down.

“Hey,” he said softly, resting a hand on LeBeau’s knee. “Newkirk’s OK. He’s just shaken up by those prisoners. You know how emotional he gets about women and children.”

LeBeau looked up, his eyes damp but blazing. “He’s relapsing. And I can’t make him want to stay alive, Kinch.”

“He’s not dying, LeBeau,” Kinch said. “He had a bad reaction to food because of something he witnessed.”

LeBeau held his head in his hand as Kinch reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “How bad was it? What he saw, I mean?” LeBeau asked.

“I wasn’t there, Louis,” Kinch replied. “The Colonel was with Carter and Newkirk. But…well, you’ve seen forced labor. You know it’s bad.”

Yes, he had seen it; they all had. Parties of foreign workers were dispatched to till soil, harvest vegetables, dig ditches, and fill factory seats vacated by men who had marched off to war. None were treated well, but some were worked to the bone. There were more men than women, or perhaps they were just more visible. Rumor had it that thousands of young, attractive Polish and Ukrainian women were assigned to a certain type of “indoor” work.

“I have to get Wilson,” Kinch said. “Come with me. The walk will do you good.”

LeBeau got to his feet and walked along with Kinch to the infirmary, passing the Kommandantur, the food storage building, the icehouse, and numerous other barracks on their way. Kinch was right; moving was better than sitting and moping.

They found Wilson in his office, going over the treatment plan for the next day’s skin clinic; 30 percent of all the cases that presented at daily sick call had to do with skin diseases that were a direct result of their living conditions, and Wilson was trying to get ahead of it. Impetigo, infected hair follicles from dirty razor blades, athlete’s foot and ringworm were just a few of the ailments he was trying to address with simple measures like powders and improved hygiene.

Wilson looked up as LeBeau and Kinch hovered in his doorway and let out a sigh. “Dismissed, Bevan,” he said to the Welsh orderly who was at his elbow. As Bevan slipped out, Wilson added, “What’s happened to Newkirk now?”

“He’s throwing up again, Doc,” Kinch said.

Wilson pulled on his jacket. “How many times.”

“Just once, unless it’s happened again,” Kinch answered.

“Uh-huh. Is he coughing? Feverish?” They were down the corridor now and heading out the door.

“I don’t think so. More upset than anything. There were some prisoners…”

“I heard,” Wilson said, cutting Kinch off.

“He threw up at the smell of food,” LeBeau put in.

“Oh, shit,” Wilson said. He stopped them mid-stride and clapped a hand down on each man’s shoulder. “United front, fellas. If he can’t eat, he has to come back to the infirmary tonight. Back me up on this.”

“He’ll do better with me, Joe,” LeBeau began.

“Louis…” Kinch said in a pleading tone. He nodded at Wilson. “You have my word. And I’ll pull the Colonel aside so he’s on the same page.”

“LeBeau?” Wilson said.

LeBeau was grinding his heel into the ground. “ _Oui, d’accord_. But if he comes back, I’m coming to stay with him. Tonight, after Klink’s stupid _Boche_ dinner,” he added.

“I would expect nothing less,” Wilson said.

**XXX**

An unpleasant splashing sound greeted the three men as they entered Barracks 2. Newkirk was hanging off the edge of Carter's bunk, vomiting into the red metal pail that was stored on top of the lockers in case of fire. Hogan had him by the back of his jacket to keep him from slipping. Carter was standing back, looking shocked, and the rest of the men were either trying to ignore the scene or scrambling around looking for ways to help.

Hogan looked up. “This is three times in 10 minutes. Did he eat something bad?”

“He did not!” LeBeau protested. “I’ve supervised his meals. Nothing bad has passed his lips.”

“Alright, alright,” Wilson said, pushing past Carter to crouch down in front of Newkirk. Hogan got to his feet to make room for Wilson, and in an instant, Kinch was pulling him aside and whispering in his ear as Hogan nodded.

Newkirk was on his back now, sweating and shaking. “Calm down,” Wilson said as he laid a hand to his forehead. It was clammy. He looked over his shoulder at Garlotti, who was hovering nearby looking to make himself useful. “Get one of the gurneys from the infirmary, Tony. Newkirk’s coming with me.”

“I just got out of there two weeks ago. I’m not going back,” Newkirk said.

“Well, you can’t stay here and puke all over the barracks,” Wilson said bluntly. “Bad form, old chap.”

“That’s a terrible British accent,” Newkirk replied. Then he leaned over again. “Bucket,” he called out. He leaned over it, made retching noises, and then flopped onto his back. Nothing this time.

“I don’t want to go,” Newkirk said bitterly as Carter supervised the spreading of sawdust.

“Of course you don’t. Who would want to leave all this splendor?” Wilson asked. “But nobody asked you. We’ll get some hyoscine into you and then we can figure out what’s going on. We’re better equipped to deal with natural disasters. Meanwhile, maybe these guys can air out the barracks.”

“Sorry, mates,” Newkirk mumbled.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Wilson said. He was taking Newkirk’s pulse.

**XXX**

An hour later, Hogan was surprised to find Newkirk drowsing in a bed in the infirmary with LeBeau sitting beside him.

“He’s doing better?” Hogan asked. “That was quick.”

Wilson appeared behind him. “It got worse before the hyoscine kicked in. It relaxes the stomach muscles and makes you sleepy. He was having stomach spasms. I don’t think he’s actually sick.”

“He’s not,” LeBeau snapped.

“I’m not,” Newkirk echoed in a loopy voice. “I’m ready to go.” He started sitting up, but LeBeau pushed him down like he weighed no more than a domino.

“ _Tais-toi, imb_ _écile_ ,” LeBeau said. “You’re staying here and I’m staying with you.”

Wilson pulled Hogan aside. “Sir, the good news is that he’s gained six pounds, and his vital signs are all good. And he’s not arguing about food. He’s trying to do whatever we tell him to do. His recovery is progressing, both physically and behaviorally.”

“That’s good, right?” Hogan said. “But…” Wilson was leading Hogan past the other beds to his office.

“But psychologically, he is still in distress,” Wilson said quietly as he walked. “He’s anxious and he has a lot of rules in his head about food that don’t make any sense.”  
  
“Rules?” Hogan said. He was puzzled. Newkirk was never a rules follower.

“Feeding is caring, Sir,” Wilson said. They arrived in the office and he waved Hogan into a seat. “Mothers bond with their babies when they feed them. Families grow close when they eat meals together. Friends share a meal to enjoy their solidarity.”

“You’re losing me, Wilson,” Hogan said.

“He trusts LeBeau to nourish him, in more ways than one, Sir,” Wilson said. “He trusts you and Kinch and Carter the same way. But sometimes he still doubts whether he’s worth it—whether he deserves your trust. Or food.”

Hogan was stumped. “D-deserves? Deserves food?” he asked incredulously.

“It’s very emotional for him, Sir. I still don’t what happened out there to shake him up so badly. But don’t worry too much, Sir. It’s a setback, but we’ll get him back on course very quickly.”

“A setback? He’s OK now? Would the medicine you gave him help?”

“The hyoscine helps, but it also makes him drowsy, so it’s not a solution. It’s just a short-term remedy to arrest the vomiting. Otherwise, he’ll end up badly dehydrated. Speaking of which, Doktor Magnusson is scheduled to be here this evening. I’ll have him set Newkirk up on intravenous fluids again, to replace what he lost.”

Hogan sat silently, not knowing where to begin. He tipped his head and scratched his ear, and finally said what he was thinking.

“Is he mentally unbalanced, Wilson? Is he unfit for duty?”

Wilson shook his head. “He’s still Newkirk, Colonel. He’s tough inside. But he’s malnourished, Sir, and that unfortunately seems to be something he has experience with. Food is evoking a lot of fears. I think he’s just scared, Sir. We can fix that. HE can fix that. We just need to get to the bottom of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- There were around 500 German military BROTHELS across Europe, and more than 34,000 Eastern European women were forced to serve as prostitutes. (Multiple sources)  
> \- The figure on SKIN DISEASES comes from “American Prisoners of War in Germany,” a report by the Military Intelligence Service of the War Department, published November 1, 1945. The report focuses on Stalag 17B but also includes general information.  
> \- HYOSCINE is an alkaloid that German scientists isolated from plant sources in the 1880s. It was widely used for vomiting, motion sickness and nausea by the 1930s.  
> \- DOKTOR MAGNUSSON (an OC) is a German doctor who last appeared in Chapter 10. At this time, only physicians (not medics or nurses) could administer an IV.


	27. Comment Changer D'Avis (How to Change a Mind)

“Just how do you plan to get to the bottom of his eating problems?” Hogan asked Wilson, sounding impatient. “It’s not as if he’s going to spill his guts. This is Newkirk we’re talking about. He’s secretive. He doesn’t talk about himself.”

Wilson shrugged. “There are techniques we can use to get him talking. I know how to do this.”

“Come on, Doc. You’re about the last person he would open up to. Do I have to point out that you and Newkirk aren’t exactly friendly?”

Hogan was right, of course. Wilson and Newkirk had a grudging respect for one another, and couldn’t be called enemies. But to Wilson’s endless frustration, Newkirk was not just one of his most frequent patients; he was also one of the most uncooperative.

Wilson had treated Newkirk for numerous injuries—small ones and serious ones, all of which came with being a member of Hogan’s core team. The English Corporal was also susceptible to respiratory infections, but he refused to cut down on smoking, and Wilson was convinced that made every cold and cough worse. In plain English, Newkirk was a pain in the ass. When it came to his health, the only person he listened to, or wanted near him, was LeBeau. That didn’t deter Wilson from giving Newkirk medical care, but it did make him gruff.

But now Hogan could see Wilson had a plan as he leaned forward across the desk. “I’ve got a secret weapon,” Wilson said. “Remember a couple of weeks ago when Kinch got him to eat that grilled cheese sandwich? He’s got the knack.”

Hogan remembered, but what was Wilson driving at? “So he ate a sandwich. What kind of knack is that?”

“A knack for hypnosis.”

Hogan didn’t so much laugh as sputter in derision. “Hypnosis! You’ve gotta be kidding me, Wilson. That’s for quacks. I thought you were a real medic. Hypnotizing people is nonsense. It’s showmanship.”

Wilson laughed back. “No, it’s not, Sir. It’s not like in the movies,” he added, spreading his hands apart for emphasis. “We’re not going to make him bark like a dog or anything…”

“Thank God for small favors,” Hogan interjected.

“… But we’re going to get him into a calm, relaxed, suggestible mood. I can do it myself, but Kinch has a nice touch with Newkirk and it won’t take him as long. He was the first one to get him to think of a positive memory of food. Remember what he said about the bread pudding?”

“He remembered how it tasted. OK…” Hogan said skeptically.

“… And he said he felt safe when his mother fed him. Newkirk never says things like that, Colonel. That was a deep memory that Kinch helped him bring to the surface. He was able to retrieve that experience because Kinch made him feel so comfortable and secure.”

“OK, but that was one time,” Hogan said.

“It’s repeatable. There’s some interesting work going on in the area of the autonomy of the unconscious mind and its capacity to solve problems. I’ve been in some seminars…”

Hogan gave the medic a quizzical look. “What did you do before the war, anyway, Wilson?” Hogan asked.

“I took a detour after a couple years of medical school and became a clinical psychologist, Sir.”

Hogan absorbed that information as Wilson continued talking. “Now, if we get Newkirk in a quiet, dark space, give him a warm plate of bread pudding, and let Kinch start talking to him in that smooth baritone of his, I think we can get him talking,” he said.

“It sounds like a lot of voodoo, Wilson,” Hogan said.

“I promise you, it’s not, Sir. Like I said, there’s a lot of research happening in this area. There’s this fellow I know called Erickson who’s using it to deal with combat trauma… real pioneering work, Sir.” He saw Hogan looking even more skeptical and decided there was no point heading down that path. “You don’t need the whole history,” Wilson said with a wave of his hand. “But, Colonel, if you’ve ever observed anyone with a faraway look in their eyes, you know that consciousness is in a continual state of flux. The line between being oriented to reality and slipping into a trance state is very subtle. Inducing a light trance can have real therapeutic value.”

Hogan nodded. It made some sense. But he had an important question. He’d seen vaudeville routines, which seemed designed to be embarrassing. “Is it ethical?” he asked.

Wilson shook his head impatiently. “You’re confusing entertainment with therapy, Sir,” he said. “I’m not talking about performing stage hypnosis. I’m not Svengali. We’re looking for ways to help him privately. It will just be Newkirk, Kinch and me.”

“Alright, alright,” Hogan said. “We need a breakthrough or Newkirk and LeBeau will never get back to work, and I need my team back together. I trust you and I trust Kinch. What do you need from me, Doc?”

“Well, first things first. I need LeBeau and a killer recipe for bread pudding,” Wilson replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilson is referring to psychologist Milton Erickson and his pioneering work in hypnotherapy. During World War II, Erickson worked extensively with the U.S. military, including intelligence services, to manage combat veterans’ trauma. He was also laying down the foundations of his work on therapeutic hypnosis, though his big treatise came in the early 1950s.
> 
> The "grilled cheese" incident with Kinch is in Chapter 17.


	28. Opération Comprendre Newkirk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies – this is another very short chapter. More to come in the next few days.

“You want me to what?” Kinch’s right eyebrow traveled halfway up his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s not like you think, Kinch,” Hogan said. “At least, not according to Wilson.” He gestured helplessly to the medic, as if to say, “You explain, because I have no earthly idea.”

“All you’re going to do is talk to him very calmly, get him to relax, and gently draw him out about his thoughts and feelings about food. That’s really it. There’s no hocus-pocus,” Wilson said.

“Thoughts and feelings. Newkirk.” Kinch drummed his fingers on the table in Colonel Hogan’s office. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard those words in the same sentence, but OK. He was giving Wilson and Hogan the look—the one that Hogan knew meant “You must be out of your ever-loving mind.” Or something stronger, but Kinch liked to keep it polite.

Hogan and Wilson stared back in silence, and Kinch knew from the determination in the set of their jaws and the pleading look in Hogan’s eyes that they were not joking. “And you think I can do this,” Kinch said quietly. “What’s wrong with LeBeau? Newkirk tells him everything. And this is food we’re talking about. Food is LeBeau’s life.”

“That’s exactly it,” Wilson said. “LeBeau can coax anything out of him—but he’s more emotional about food than Newkirk is, just in a more positive way.” Wilson’s voice dropped to a mutter. “With erotic overtones, if you want to know my real opinion about LeBeau and food, but he _is_ French, and we’re not analyzing LeBeau. It’s Newkirk we’re trying to figure out.”

Hogan turned and stared at Wilson. That medic said the darnedest things sometimes, and now Hogan was never going to be able to listen to LeBeau gushing about cognac shrimp with _beurre blanc_ in quite the same way.

“Are you done with your insinuations?” Hogan asked sharply. Wilson nodded meekly.

Hogan returned his gaze to Kinch. “Yeah, well, we think it’s got to be you, Kinch. You got him to reminisce about the bread pudding…”

“Oh, yeah,” Kinch said.

“… and we need to get him back in that frame of mind so you and Wilson can ask him a few questions.”

“Me? I’m not asking any questions,” Wilson said. “I’m sitting where he can’t see me. He’ll clam up if I open my trap.”

“That true,” Kinch said with a vigorous nod. He squared his shoulders. “Alright, I’ll do my best, Sir. But you’re going to have to explain what I’m trying to get out of him.”

“We’ll talk in the morning, OK? I’ll release him after roll call. I just want to top him off with some fluids tonight.” Wilson had arranged for Newkirk to be seen by his German colleague, Doktor Magnusson, who could administer more treatments than a mere medic could.

Hogan tightened his lips and wrinkled his nose. He knew that Wilson meant Newkirk was getting intravenous fluids, but there was something wrong in the way he said it. He stuck up for his Corporal.

“You know, Wilson, he’s a human being,” Hogan said. “You make him sound like a car that needs an oil change.”

Wilson shrugged and thought about it. “I guess he is. His memories are a kind of dirt and debris that are clogging up the ol’ fuel filter. All that grime keeps circulating back in the engine until the oil turns into sludge and the moving parts are fighting through the muck. That means less punch and torque… yeah, it’s a good analogy.”

Hogan sighed. “We really need to work on your bedside manner, Wilson. Get back to the infirmary. We’ll see you in the morning.”

Kinch and Hogan watched him go, then turned and looked at one another.

“If I’m going to get in between Newkirk and Wilson, I’m putting in for hazardous duty pay, Sir,” Kinch said.

“Don’t worry. We’ll all chip in for that, Kinch,” Hogan replied with a grin.


	29. Hippocrate ou Hypocrite

It was evening, and Newkirk was propped up in his infirmary bed, wincing as Doktor Magnusson located a vein and poked a needle into his arm, while the Welsh orderly Bevan watched. The medicine that had made him so drowsy in the middle of the afternoon had worn off, and he really felt that pinch. Relief followed as the doctor released the tourniquet from his arm and taped some tubes in place.

“There,” Doktor Magnusson said. “You’ll notice an improvement soon.”

Newkirk looked up and sighed. He’d been through this before. The rubber tubes that ran from the crook of his arm were connected to a thick glass bottle. He could feel the liquid from the bottle entering his arm; the drip, drip, drip felt cool, and he shivered involuntarily. Newkirk jutted his bottom lip out as he watched Bevan adjust the bottle, which was now hanging upside down on a pole beside his bed. Bevan jotted down some notes and then exited, but the doctor remained. He stooped down and held the stethoscope to Newkirk’s chest to listen to his heart.

“What’s in it? The bottle, I mean,” Newkirk asked, trying not to sound petulant, and not succeeding. The problem wasn’t that the needle hurt; it didn’t after the initial sting. It was that LeBeau, who had come to the infirmary with him, had disappeared. Nothing put Newkirk in a fighting mood faster than not knowing where his best mate was. And Louis would know whether the Kraut doctor was on the level, whether they could trust him.

Doktor Magnusson was surprised by the question. He had seen a lot of this particular patient on his daily visits to Stalag 13 over the past several weeks, and he rarely spoke except to the French corporal who always seemed to be at his side. It was a good sign that he was taking an interest in his treatment, the doctor decided.

“It contains salt and glucose to build your strength back up,” Doktor Magnusson said. “I’m checking your lungs now, so breathe in and out.”

Newkirk inhaled and exhaled as the doctor held the drum of the stethoscope to his chest, then prodded him to lean forward so he could listen from the back. “You are wheezing a bit; we can treat that. You want to know about the intravenous fluid, eh? You’ll get 500 millileters to start, and another 500 millileters in about four hours, when this one is done. Breathe in and out again, please.”

Inhale, exhale. “Is it calories?” Newkirk asked. “Is that what that means?”

The doctor laughed as he removed the earpieces from his ears and let the stethoscope hang from his neck. “Yes, among other things, but the main purpose is to replace fluids that you’ve lost from vomiting so much. You will need to take some food by mouth as soon as your stomach is settled. Are you able to eat something now?”

Newkirk sighed. He looked up at the doctor and wondered what his story was. He was probably in his fifties, he decided, and he looked tired. It wasn’t just the streaks of gray in Doktor Magnusson’s thinning hair that gave Newkirk that impression. He could see that under the white lab coat that all the doctors and medics wore in the infirmary, this doctor’s clothes were rumpled, and the hem on his trousers was frayed.

Newkirk ignored the doctor’s question, because he had questions of his own. “Ffffour hours, you said?” Newkirk inquired. “Will you still be here? How late is it, anyway?”

“I just got here at 8 o’clock,” Doktor Magnusson replied, speaking absently as he fiddled with the tubing and made some notes in Newkirk’s file. “I will leave when I’m done, which will be around 1 o’clock in the morning. I’d like to go sooner, but I need to start a second round of fluids for you and one other man, so I shall stay. Your medics can withdraw the drip when it’s empty; they just can’t insert it.”

“Eight o’clock?” Newkirk asked. He suddenly looked bewildered. He could hear whistles and voices out in the prison yard.

Doktor Magnusson consulted his watch. “That was an hour ago. It’s nearly nine o’clock now.” He looked at Newkirk. “You’re still too thin, soldier, so let’s find some food for you. You must eat what you’re given. Your French friend will be back here shortly to help you. And Bevan will administer a breathing treatment. Steam, eucalyptus and a chest rub will help.” He was on his way out of Newkirk’s cubicle when another question stopped him.

“Why do you come, Sir?”

“Hmm?” Doktor Magnusson turned to Newkirk.

“Wh-why do you come here? Don’t you have a job in Hammelburg?”

“Hmm. Yes, of course. I supervise the Luftwaffe medical clinic for our region, and I look after Allied prisoners of war, too. Four or five hours a day, usually at night. Why?”

“J-j-j-just curious why a G-German doctor would look after us, that’s all,” Newkirk said. “I didn’t think you’d… necessarily… well, want to do anything for us. Why would you help us?”

“Ah. I see. You’re worried I won’t provide proper care. Have you heard of the Hippocratic Oath?”

Newkirk narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly. It was just a simple question. He wasn’t counting on hearing big, incomprehensible words.

“It means that it’s my bound duty to use my medical knowledge to benefit people’s health.”

“Yeah, but we’re enemies,” Newkirk replied. “How do I know you’re not p-p-putting something bad for me in that b-bottle?” he said, gesturing toward the drip.

Docktor Magnusson smiled indulgently. “I wouldn’t do that because I took the oath. It’s a pledge doctors make to do our best to serve patients regardless of who they are, and also to do no harm— _P_ _rimum non nocere_ _._ It’s a serious promise.” And, he thought, it was an unfortunate fact that since the Third Reich came to power, medical students no longer took the oath.

Newkirk sat and thought for a moment while the doctor looked at him quizzically. “What about other prisoners?” he finally asked. “Not POWs, but Poles and Ukrainians and that lot. _Ost-Arbeiter_ , their badges said. Who looks after them?”

Doktor Magnusson flinched. He’d seen them too; everyone in Hammelburg had. Filthy, ragged and wretched. He’d never been especially fond of eastern Europeans, but he was quite sure they didn’t arrive in Germany looking so dirty and desperate.

“They have doctors of their own, other Poles and Ukrainians, just as the Jews have their own doctors,” Doktor Magnusson said. 

“Their own doctors, eh?” Newkirk said, unable to hide a sneer. It didn’t seem bloody likely. “Do they have their own mmmedical supplies, then? Infirmaries and bandages and cl-clean sheets and medicine?” He was quite sure he knew the answer.

“I couldn’t say,” Docktor Magnusson said. “My responsibilities don’t extend to civilians. I’m attached to the Luftwaffe, and POWs like you fall under Luftwaffe care.”

“Care,” Newkirk spat.

“Yes, care,” the doctor responded sharply. “Do you find something unacceptable in your treatment here? Something lacking that you would have received at home?” He was getting annoyed. This young man obviously came from nothing, so why was he being arrogant? And as a doctor, Magnusson knew he was doing his utmost to provide whatever care he could. The prisoners were no worse off than the Luftwaffe men he cared for in town. The only difference was the Luftwaffe men had a significantly higher rate of venereal diseases, while the prisoners had skin infections and respiratory ailments that came from living in tight quarters.

Newkirk felt like a schoolboy who had been rapped on the knuckles. The truth was he’d hardly been to a doctor before he enlisted. The council sent nurses around to the schools to treat children for lice and other ailments, and he remembered when he was four or five that the midwives sometimes came by with milk and vitamins. That was all. So no, nothing was lacking. The infirmary was cleaner than his home was, and so was the barracks, for that matter. It had fewer rats than he was accustomed to, any road.

“No, it’s alright, Sir,” Newkirk muttered. “I appreciate what you’ve d-d-done for me.” He was embarrassed now; he wasn’t quite sure what he was fussing about, and his stomach still felt queasy. Now he could feel a whistle in his chest too. He was bloody tired of being ill.

“We try our best. Resources are limited everywhere, young man,” Doktor Magnusson said, trying to make sure his compassion came through. “Unfortunately, I can’t give you any information on the _Ost-Arbeiters_. They are really beyond my remit, I’m afraid.”

“I understand,” Newkirk said. “Sorry, Sir.” He looked up. “But if you saw one of them workers, would you help him? If you could do something to make them just a little better, would you do it? Because they’re much thinner than I am, Sir.”

Doktor Magnusson nodded, not in agreement, but in comprehension. “I’d have to think about it,” he said. “Resources are scant.” And consequences were swift, he added silently.

“You said you’d serve patients regardless of who they are. That you swore an oath,” Newkirk persisted.

“Yes,” Doktor Magnusson said. “Yes, I swore an oath and I live by it.” As the words came out, his stomach fluttered. Did he live by it? Did he really? Or did he only think he did?

Suddenly they both noticed feet approaching, and in a moment, LeBeau popped through the curtain that surrounded Newkirk’s bed.

“ _Mon pote_ , you’re awake!” he said cheerfully. “You missed the longest roll call in weeks,” he added with a dramatic moan. _Gutend abend, Herr Doktor_ ,” he added with a nod toward Magnusson.

“I told you your friend would be back,” Doktor Magnusson said, relieved to have an excuse to exit. “I’ll have an orderly send in toast and tea and I want you to eat it all. If you’re holding down food, Sergeant Wilson will be able to release you in the morning.”

LeBeau and Newkirk both nodded absently; LeBeau was busy regaling Newkirk with the ridiculous things Klink had said during rollcall. They didn’t notice as Doktor Magnusson slipped out, his head down slightly in deep thought. Where had he last seen those workers?


	30. Détermination renouvelée

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title means "Renewed determination"

“Come on Wilson, let me out of here,” Newkirk said. Morning sun was streaming into the infirmary as he perched on the edge of his hospital bed, dressed in his undershirt and trousers, tapping his boots impatiently against the bed railing. The sound of hundreds of men assembling in the compound for rollcall meant the day was ticking away. And here he was, with the camp medic holding him by the wrist.

“If you’ll stop wriggling, I can get an accurate heart rate,” Wilson grumbled as he located the pulse point for the second time in two minutes. Newkirk stilled himself long enough for Wilson to feel the beat and count. Then the medic pronounced, “67 beats per minute at rest.” Behind him, Mallory the orderly jotted the numbers in Newkirk’s chart.

“Is that g-good?” Newkirk inquired.

“It’s fine. A little higher than average for you, but that’s to be expected,” Wilson murmured as he stuck a thermometer under Newkirk’s tongue. He stood, hands on hips, studying his patient as he waited for three minutes to pass. Despite last night’s setback, Newkirk was on the mend. His skin was pinking up and his cheeks were filling out. The infusion had helped.

“When you’re in top condition, your heart rate has tended to be around 58 or 59,” Wilson explained to his impatient patient. He closely monitored the health and fitness of the five men who performed the majority of missions outside the wire, activities that could involve cross-country running, climbing, and other exertions. Carter was the real athlete of the bunch, with a resting heart rate around 50, but the rest of the team was consistently in the excellent range. Newkirk was doing alright, but weight loss and repeated bouts of vomiting had taken a toll.

He pulled out the thermometer and announced “97.9” to Mallory, who wrote the satisfactory numbers down. Then he said, “pull it up” to Newkirk, gesturing at his midsection while getting his stethoscope earpieces into place. Newkirk rolled his eyes, but he yanked up his undershirt and felt the cold press of the drum against his chest. Then Wilson moved around behind and listened to his back. “Clear,” he told Mallory, who made a notation in the chart, and then exited.

“You’re fit,” Wilson said. “But dammit, Newkirk, try not to slip. You’re making progress.”

“I’m not _trying_ to sl-slip,” Newkirk protested. “It’s just, it’s hard, that’s all. Sometimes I l-lose my appetite.”

“I know,” Wilson said, shifting to a much gentler tone of voice than he usually used with his most difficult patient. “Just do your best. You want to get back to work. Colonel Hogan needs you back, and he needs LeBeau too.”

Newkirk nodded solemnly. Yes, sitting out missions was difficult even though he had been in no condition to participate. In the last few days, he had just begun to realize that he was monopolizing LeBeau’s time and pulling him away from important work, and now he felt guilty about that.

But today things were changing, Newkirk decided. Maybe it was the fluids and the medicine Doktor Magnusson had pumped into his veins, but he felt better this morning than he had in days. And not just physically better, but clearer in the head. A day earlier, his mind had been a fog of anger from the sight of those slave laborers. This morning, his anger was still there, but it had been tempered by understanding and determination. War was bloody awful. Horrible things happened to innocent people. His best chance of doing something about it was to get back into the fight.

“You’ve gained six pounds in the last three weeks, Newkirk,” he heard Wilson saying. “That’s very good progress. Let LeBeau help you stay on track. A few more pounds, and I’ll sign off on your…”

Wilson was still saying “return to duty” when Newkirk started talking over him. “You will? How soon?” he demanded. His eyes brightened; he’d been sidelined for too long, and the prospect of rejoining his mates was welcome news.

“Two more pounds, as long as your vitals look good. You can accomplish that in a week,” Wilson said. “And there’s something else you need to do.”

Newkirk groaned. “Blimey, there’s always a catch.”

“This won’t be hard for a big mouth like you, Newkirk. You just need to talk to Kinch.”

Now Newkirk looked bewildered. “I always t-talk to Kinch. He’s my mate.”

“Good. Because you and Kinch and I are going to have a nice, relaxing talk this evening. And we’re going to keep talking until we figure some things out.”

“Wh-what? What do we have to t-talk about?” Newkirk asked, squinting his eyes. He had no clue what Wilson was after, and no idea why Kinch was suddenly front and center in whatever Wilson had planned for him.

“We’re going to try to get inside that thick head of yours and understand why food gives you so much distress,” Wilson said. “Why you feel the way you do about eating,” he added with a small wave of his hand.

Wilson’s quiet tone contrasted with the firmness of his words, and Newkirk found himself off balance. And when he was off balance, Newkirk knew it didn’t pay to fight. It paid to be highly agreeable while he sussed out the situation, and then to find a quick escape route at his earliest opportunity.

“Oh, I’ll talk, but I pr-promise you don’t want to get inside my head, mate. There’s nothing in there but fffish and chips, fffootball, and birds. Lots and lots of birds, saying and doing things that could mmmake a sailor blush.” Newkirk smiled as he said it, but inside he was building a wall. He didn’t want to talk about his feelings, of all things, and if he did, LeBeau would be the person he told them to. Nobody else. Not Kinch or any of his other mates, and certainly not Wilson. His ruddy feelings had already got him into too much trouble lately, exposing his weaknesses and making everyone tiptoe around him when all he wanted was to simply eat in peace.

Wilson ignored the dodge. “We’ll talk later. I expect to see you back here to get lunch and supper.” Wilson craned his neck toward the taped-up window. He could see that rollcall was breaking up. “Get going,” he told Newkirk with a broad smile. “I don’t want to see you back in this hospital bed, do you understand?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Newkirk said amiably. He was on his feet before Wilson finished the sentence. He reached into his breast pocket, fished out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips.

“No smoking in here, Newkirk,” Wilson warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of lighting up in here, Doc,” Newkirk told Wilson as he brushed past him. “But the second I step out that door, infirmary rules don’t apply to me.” He threw the words over his shoulder as he emerged into the daylight.

Wilson stood with his hands on his hips and watched him go. We’ll see about that, he thought as he watched the Englishman amble off.

**XXX**

Morning routines were in full swing as Newkirk stepped over the threshold into Barracks 2. Some men were making their beds; some were gnawing on the brown bread they got for breakfast; others were jostling for a turn at the mirror to shave. A smell like sugar browning hit Newkirk’s nose, to his instant surprise. It was real coffee this morning, not the chicory stuff.

Real coffee meant Red Cross parcels must have arrived in the short time he’d been gone. Newkirk looked up at his bunk; his unopened parcel was there, along with payments for various bets. He preferred to accept compensation in the form of cigarettes, and there were several packets stacked up. There were also five tins of Peak Freans’ Apple Pudding and one containing strawberry jam. Newkirk smiled. It seemed the parcels were British this week, and his mates certainly knew what he liked.

“ _Mon pote_ , welcome back!” LeBeau said, thrusting a can under Newkirk’s nose as he settled himself at the table. “Translate, _s’il vous plait_. What are ‘Lusty’s Minced Collops?’ Is this any use to me? We all got these.”

“Beef and onion and oats,” Newkirk replied, trying not shudder. “It’s a Scottish thing; I can’t explain it.”

“Hmm. It can go in a pie.” LeBeau shelved the can in the locker where he stored foodstuffs for the entire barracks’ consumption. Then he poured mugs of coffee for himself and Newkirk and took a seat at the table across from his friend. The room was abuzz all around them, but they were alone at the table.

“Better today?” LeBeau asked quietly.

“Yes. Where were you?”

“I was there all night,” LeBeau replied. “I had to leave early for rollcall. You know that.”

Newkirk grunted softly in agreement as he lit another cigarette and silently scolded himself not just for needing Louis but for showing it once again. He dipped his head and nodded. “I know,” he said.

“The treatment the doctor gave you last night helped you,” LeBeau observed.

“Yes,” Newkirk said. “I feel a right fool for the trouble I caused. I want to get back to work, Louis.”

LeBeau’s sense of relief was visible. He exhaled deeply. “Good, because that’s what we all want. And it’s the first time in weeks that I’ve heard you say that.”

“Two more pounds,” Newkirk said. “Wilson says that if I gain that much, he’ll authorize it. Do you suppose the Gov will go for it?” He looked around. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Meeting with Klink, what else? We have a mission tonight and he needs to make sure Klink won’t be in a position to interfere.” He paused to take stock of the expression on Newkirk’s face. It was apprehension. “I’m sure Colonel Hogan will speak with Wilson. And if Wilson says you’re ready, he means it. Now,” he added, thumping his fist lightly on table. “Did you eat breakfast?”

“I did,” Newkirk replied. He saw LeBeau draw a paper and pencil from his pocket. “Porridge made with milk,” Newkirk said softly. “A slice of toast with jam. Sultanas.” He looked around nervously. “They’d all be lining up if they knew there's real food in the infirmary,” he whispered.

“Keep it to yourself,” LeBeau agreed. “Good,” he said as he tucked the list away. “That apple pudding will be good for mid-morning.”

“Louis, have you heard anything about those workers?” Newkirk asked.

“Pierre, please,” LeBeau said. “You can’t concern yourself with them. There are some things that our beyond our control, even though they are terrible.”

“I know I can’t do anything,” Newkirk replied. “But if we had some information, that Kraut doctor, Magnusson… maybe he could help them. He seems alright.”

“I’ve seen him, Pierre, and he is a good doctor. But he works for the Luftwaffe. Why would he help? And what could he possibly do? There isn’t that much food to go around.”

Newkirk shrugged. He really had no idea what he thought anyone could do. But he hated the idea that he was fattening himself up while others went hungry. Why did he deserve food if they didn’t? LeBeau was right, though, he decided. He had no plan, no idea, no way to help—not really.


End file.
